


your lucky number (come take my hand)

by neurolingual



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Friendships, F/F, Friends to Lovers, gay faunus rights!, it's the tinder au no one was asking for that i am happily delivering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-11-08 19:32:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 52,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17987282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neurolingual/pseuds/neurolingual
Summary: Her hand seeks the comfort Yang carries in her palm, fingers curling around creases and lifelines that holds a calm Blake wants to fall into.Despite blemishes, each time Blake steps through those doors, a small part of her swears she was finally coming home.





	1. lines of red in a leather book

**Author's Note:**

> eric andre voice: let me in LET ME IN
> 
> also sorry in advance this WAS going to be one long fic but then i foolishly thought, what about multi chap? truth be told i hate myself
> 
> enjoy !!!
> 
> full disclosure: i know you can't send pictures through tinder messages anymore but uh, sue me !

It’s becoming a routine. A bad habit that’s snuck its way into her carefully crafted plan, the one in which she promised herself she wouldn’t crave the taste of whiskey when her cheeks stung by part of a phantom hand.

Innocent at first, like it always was. Being dragged from her room and forced to shower, Sun helping her pick out outfits and painting her nails, then he’d buy her shot after shot until she had to choke down the heady night air to stop her shivering. Then it was Weiss and brunch, where drinking was okay to do in the bright eyes of daylight. And then that became her weekends—Saturdays with the boys and Sunday mornings with Weiss, where vodka would burn her throat faster than screaming ever could.

She didn’t want to turn to it, didn’t want alcohol to become her norm—she’d seen so many others, her father’s clients and strangers alike who crumbled with every step they took, lips pressed to the mouth of a bottle. She turned it down over and over again, promised herself she was fine, promised the same to others and only broke when she couldn’t handle the taste of her own lies anymore.

But six months more and she’s lent up against a sticky bar top, mouth in a grimace and willing her ears desperately not to twitch under the wool of her hat. Sun’s off with Neptune; she’d lost track of them an hour ago, and for the most part, she liked the taste of her mule better without company, which the man propped up beside her obviously doesn’t get.

Or is refusing to.

“You know,” he slurs. Blake can smell the cheap cologne that clings to his even cheaper shirt. “It’s not often I find someone that interests me.”

She hums, sips her drink.

“I’ve barely spoken three words to you,” she lulls through clenched teeth. The lime isn’t strong enough, but every time she’s tried asking for more, this guy shoos the bartender away and inches further into her space.

At least there’s vodka.

He watches her, the slow rise in the column of her throat, the way her breath lets out, deep and even. She’s tracing the curves and dips of the neon flamingo blinking above the bar top mirrors when he speaks again. “And yet, here I am. That means you interest me.”

Blake wants to roll her eyes. She really does. “I figured.”

His mouth sets, hard. Her skin prickles, goosebumps clamping around her arm like a vice, choking and swallowing and engulfing—

No, not goosebumps.

His hand, curled over her forearm like an exit sign, drawing the heat from her body to shrivel her small. On reflex, she reaches, sinks her nails into the flesh around his wrist, and digs.

“Christ!” The man yanks his arm back; Blake’s nails scar him in red, red mistakes. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“ _I’m_ not the one grabbing random women in bars!” She gives back just as hot—she’s trying not to be the one to back down anymore, the one to run away. It’s been a lifetime of looking over her shoulder. She wants to change.

This might as well be as good a time as any.

“You’re insane!” His eyes are dull, narrowed. Those eyes lift to the top of her head, no doubt drawn to the twitching of her ears turning flat against her head. His snarl only grows, kicking away from the bar to draw the music lower, turn more heads. “You _animal_. No wonder you scratched me. You’re barely _housetrained_ —”

“Who taught you manners?” The crowd parts for a blur of blue jeans and a flicking tail, circles back when the man is against the wall. Sun’s got the collar of his shirt tight in his fist. “Swamp people? The hell is wrong with you?”

Her voice finds her like a crutch, hoarse from scars being open once more.

“Put him down, Sun.” Blake doesn’t reach for him, just stands beside him, eyes pleading, tight at the corners. He glances over his shoulder, finally satisfied with how much the man squirms and drops him to the floor, spins around and takes her by the hand and leads her out the door.

The cab that finally does stop for them smells like old cigarettes, damp and earthen like the way his jacket collar used to smell. It coils tight in her throat like a spring, steel wool bruising her tongue. Her hands are balled into fists in her lap, tugging on a loose thread from the seam of her patterned skirt.

Sun rests his hand atop hers and his warmth draws her back down. She hooks her thumb around the finger closest to her, puts enough pressure on him that it should hurt.

But Sun just says, “We’ll find a new watering hole. No biggie,” shoulders loose in a shrug.

Her voice is still lost back inside that bar. She digs her nail into his skin and hopes it’s enough.

 

-

 

The way everyone stares at her when she steps into the offices every morning isn’t as subtle as they’d like to think.

If they’re trying to be subtle at all.

For a good while, Blake had been absent. To the surprise of no one, when asked, her father kept his mouth in a line, lips tight. Even though she did work for her father, the amount of time she had been gone made their HR department start drafting contracts for her temp replacement to become permanent. Reasonably so—disappearing like she had for a month and a half, she was surprised her father kept her position open at all.

Of course, he knew why—Blake spent nearly every night at their house outside the city for dinner. Sun would join her on some of those nights, much to Ghira’s dismay, though he knows Sun took good care of her. Kali was more than thrilled to have her daughter home, but—

“ _I wish she had come to us before, not after_ ,” she had said one night to Ghira over a newly opened bottle of wine, listening to Blake’s strained laughter and Sun’s exaggerations from the dining room.

“ _She’s asking for help now_ ,” he says, tucks his wife into his side, drops a kiss to the top of her head. “ _That’s what matters_.”

Ghira stops at her desk each morning with a blueberry muffin (she’ll pick at it until lunch) and a mug of the tea he keeps in his office just for her.

As much as it embarrasses her, burns bright and pink in her cheeks with her ears flat against her head, it stops everyone from looking.

And that’s enough for Ghira to take clients without worrying his daughter will fall through on a hair-trigger.

 

-

 

The sun is high and warms the breeze that rolls through their apartment windows. For mid-fall, it’s a welcome change from watching her breath cloud in front of her too early in the morning. The smell of nail polish is almost too much; the black was starting to flake and she’s been needing a change, anyhow.

Though, the purple she’s chosen isn’t much lighter than what she has on.

Saturday mornings, Blake keeps to herself: Sun doesn’t bother her until he gets back from his workout, and Weiss is usually cleaning to the point of obsession—Blake’s made the mistake of picking up a succulent for a better look and the snap reaction she got was almost rabid.

She likes to spend her Saturday mornings with a kettle of that fancy tea Weiss got her for her birthday earlier this year, a breakfast that takes her longer than five minutes to make, traipsing around on their balcony and listening to music while she waters their small herb garden. Sometimes she’ll call her mom, but not as often as she had a few months ago—though, Kali still sends her pictures of her father snoring over the morning paper. Blake has half a mind to forward it to everyone in the office, so they’d stop thinking Ghira was any semblance of intimidating.

So, when her phone vibrates, she expects it to be her mom with yet another picture—maybe this time her father fell asleep on the rocking chair with their cat curled in his lap (that picture is Blake’s favorite). One of these days, she’ll have to make a collage.

But it’s Neptune’s name that lights up her screen.

 

From: **Poseidon Vasilias**

[11:45am]

Hey !

 

Blake and Neptune got along well enough, but they weren’t particularly close. She’s made jokes at his expense—he’s her roommate’s best friend, her best friend’s not-boyfriend, someone Blake finds to be earnest and kind, something she seems to be finding less of as she gets older.

Truthfully, they’ve only hung out by themselves, just the two of them, enough times that Blake can count them on one hand. It usually ended with either Weiss or Sun stepping in to ease the conversation somewhere back to normal. One time it ended in a blackout; Blake woke up in his bathtub.

(They don’t speak about that to anyone).

**Me**

[11:53am]

Good morning?

**Poseidon Vasilias**

[11:55am]

What are you up to? :)

 

Blake snorts.

 

**Me**

[11:56am]

Is Weiss ignoring you again?

**Poseidon Vasilias**

[11:59am]

No

**Me**

[12:01pm]

What did you do?

 

It takes him long enough to respond that the polish dries; Blake considers a clear coat, maybe a bit of glitter.

 

**Poseidon Vasilias**

[12:11pm]

Asked her on a date

**Me**

[12:12pm]

To where?

**Poseidon Vasilias**

[12:12pm]

A club?

**Me**

[12:13pm]

/That’s/ where you fucked up.

Weiss isn’t like us. She’d rather have a serious conversation about the weather than take tequila shots.

Plus, you can’t even dance.

**Poseidon Vasilias**

[12:14pm]

That’s not true! I’m getting better!

And honestly, I don’t know where to take her. I’m not good at this

**Me**

[12:16pm]

She likes that fancy ramen bar down the street from her place.

**Poseidon Vasilias**

[12:16pm]

Is it really that easy?

**Me**

[12:17pm]

You’d be surprised what a girl will do for free food.

**Poseidon Vasilias**

[12:18pm]

>:(

**Me**

[12:21pm]

Free food /with/ a boy she likes.

**Poseidon Vasilias**

[12:22pm]

I don’t know if I trust you now

**Me**

[12:24pm]

Wait three hours and then ask again.

If I’m right, you owe me a bottle of fancy wine.

 

-

 

From: **Poseidon Vasilias**

[4:34pm]

Do you like red or white?

 

-

 

Sun had kept his word. There’s a new bar that opened not long ago that he and Neptune have been frequenting, and from all accounts, he seems keen on it.

“I’ve scoped it out,” he says, applying too much cologne. Blake has to cover her nose. “Nothing sketch about it. All the people working there are cool, and no creepos have shown up yet. I think you’d like it.”

She worries on her bottom lip, feels a burn in her wrist. She holds it to her chest, and Sun, bless him, pretends not to notice.

“I don’t know…” she trails off, takes note of her half-empty wine glass on the coffee table, popcorn still steaming in the bowl beside it. “There’s a new Netflix documentary about serial killers I’ve been wanting to check out.”

He wrinkles his nose, glances at her out of the corner of his. “I don’t understand how you watch that crap.”

Blake shrugs, pushing off against the door frame when he flicks the lights off, follows her out to their living room. She hands him his jacket from off the couch, falling against a cushion, twirling her phone in her hands to keep them occupied. “It’s interesting.”

His eyes are still narrowed as he pulls the denim over his chest. “Whatever you say.” He sees the way she taps the home button on her phone, lighting it up to only to watch it fade. Her face seems sullen—he knows she hasn’t been sleeping much this week, but he hasn’t pried. At most, he’s made her avocado toast in the mornings before he’s left for work and sent her ugly pictures of himself at odd angles to get her mind off of whatever it was that’s bothering her.

When she lights up her phone again, he finally pries. “What’s up, dude? You’ve been kind of down this week.”

Blake traps the tip of her tongue between her teeth, reaches for a handful of popcorn and shoves it in her mouth, buys herself a few moments of quiet. She follows it with a larger gulp of wine than she intended, almost choking on a kernel.

“I think I’m lonely,” she says, somber, cold, head lulling back against the cushion. She doesn’t meet his eyes, but Sun knows they’re distant, out of focus.

Her phone lights up on her own and she snaps her head forward, a deep frown settling when she sees it’s just an email; she tosses it to the other end of the couch.

Sun’s phone vibrates then, and his notification sends his smile wicked.

“I know what you can do.”

She cranes her neck back, eyes shrewd. “I don’t like that look on your face.”

Flashing a smile too bright for the dim lights of their living room, Sun flips his phone around for her to see. Blake recoils like she’s been slapped.

“ _Tinder?_ ”

He slides his phone into the breast pocket inside his jacket. “It’s fun. There are some pretty cool people out there.”

Blake pinches the bridge of her nose, breath heavy on a sigh. “I’m _not_ that kind of lonely.”

He fishes Blake’s metro card from her wallet, ignoring the huff she sends his way. The small blue monkey that dangles from his house keys grabs her focus, her blood hot in her veins with indignance.

“You never know, dude.”

“I _do_ know, _dude_ ,” she mocks, pulling another long sip from her glass.

The way his mouth sits, crooked but not cruel only sets her off more, pillow cocked behind her, loaded in the chamber. He scrambles out the door before it hits him, thumping against the door in saddened defeat.

When her phone vibrates, she knows it’s him. She almost deletes it.

 

From: **Skunk Wukong**

[7:43pm]

Don’t knock it till u try it, prude

 

She deletes it.

Halfway through the documentary and Blake is bored, having swung her legs over the back of the couch, head light from the blood rushing to her cheeks. It makes trying to watch it a bit more interesting, but the more she listens to a balding man blather about the genius it takes to be psychopath, the more she feels like stuffing cotton balls into all four of her ears and taking an Ambien.

Weiss still hasn’t texted her back from an hour ago, Blake asking if she wanted to join her in watching something she barely has an interest in herself. When she powers off the TV, the silence that follows deafens. The noises of city life do little to calm her squirming, the discomfort settling in her bones like a familiar ache—waiting for him to come home, wondering if he’ll taste like whiskey or beer, whether his hands will be kind or if they’ll bleed.

It drowns her, fills her lungs with dread and it propels her from the couch, her bedroom door swinging open as she shoves her head through a sweater.

She texts Weiss again, _I don’t care if you’re awake, I’m coming over anyway_ , and escapes through the front door, leaving the silence behind her.

 

-

 

“You need more friends,” Weiss says, hair askew and flat on one side, opening the door for Blake to slip through.

“It’s 8:30, Weiss,” Blake shrugs off her coat against the back of the couch; Weiss scoffs, picking it up and hanging it on the coat rack. “On a Saturday. Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know,” she waves her hand distractedly, moving to Weiss’s kitchenette to fill her kettle with water. “With Neptune? Out doing like, dating-but-not couple-y stuff?”

“Thanks for that, by the way.” Weiss skulks down the hall. "I've never seen anyone eat ramen so nervously in my life."

Blake busies herself with studying the tea Weiss keeps in her apartment, tucked away in the corner cabinet where only Blake can reach. It’s there for her—Weiss hasn’t touched the stuff since Neptune pointed out a leaf stuck between her teeth.

Footsteps pad down the hall; Weiss appears next to the breakfast bar, hands stretched above her head, a sweater two sizes too big hanging from her shoulders.

“You’re here on a Saturday night to drink my tea.” Weiss pulls her hair back into a tight bun, reaches for her own mug and fills her coffee maker with decaf grounds she keeps in a jar by the stove.

“It’s _my_ tea.”

“ _I_ bought it.” Weiss disappears behind the fridge door.

“Yeah,” Blake’s grin is all teeth, sharp and white under the dull ceiling lights. “But you _bought_ _it_ for _me_.”

“I don’t even like you that much,” she grumbles, handing Blake the cream.

The kettle whistles on the stove; Blake cuts the flame, packs the tea into the metal steeper and fills her mug. The water swirls in deep amber, ginger and clove fighting through the steam.

The coffee maker churns, calms itself with an easy hum. Weiss fills her own mug and moves to the living room. Blake follows, grabs the box of cookies with cranberries in them that Weiss pretends not to love.

They settle beside one another on the couch. Blake sets the cookies between them; Weiss grabs one, dunks it into her coffee.

“Why aren’t you out with Sun tonight?” Weiss asks, watches Blake splash cream into her tea, sips at her coffee even though it’s still too hot. “It’s the one day a week where you’re not bothering me.”

Mug against her lips, Blake’s caught in a grin, rolling her eyes as she folds her legs underneath her. “I didn’t feel like drinking tonight. Plus, watching him get turned down by every girl he meets is starting to feel more sad than entertaining.”

Weiss smiles. “Speak for yourself.”

“And I really just can’t deal with him tonight,” she sighs, sets her mug down on one of Weiss’s cat-shaped coasters.

Weiss sets her own mug aside, pops another cookie in her mouth. She finishes chewing before she asks, “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Blake picks at the chipping paint on her nails. “We just got into an argument, is all.”

“What about?”

“Me,” Blake sinks back into the cushions. “He thinks that I should try using one of those apps to meet new people. He thinks it be good for me to make new friends.” Flecks on nail polish fall onto her knee; Blake flicks them off onto the floor. “He’s worried about me.”

She knows it’s been a while, knows that Sun’s concern is bred out of love, out of friendship and that, maybe, his suggestion held decent advice in the corners but still—could she really get to know someone through an app? Through texts? Could she handle meeting a stranger, their past tucked away only to be revealed when it’s too late—

Blake squeezes her eyes shut, breathes harsh through her nose.

Weiss plays with the crumbs in the cookie tray, crushing bits between her thumb and forefinger. The steam from her mug curls over her cheeks—she looks down, giving a one-shoulder shrug.

“I… don’t think it’s the worst idea he’s ever had.”

Blake’s head snaps to her. “ _What?_ ”

Weiss commits to the shrug this time. “I mean, he has a point.” She reaches out for Blake’s leg. “Not! Not that I don’t… enjoy spending time with you. But,” she worries on her bottom lip. “You get home from work every day and lock yourself inside until Saturday nights. And then you drink. I’m not saying it’s unhealthy, but I’m also not _not_ saying that.”

Blake narrows her eyes, then—“I know,” she pushes her bangs back from her forehead, cranes her neck over the back of the couch. “I know.”

“I think you would certainly benefit from it.” Weiss takes another sip.

“It’s just that,” Blake clenches her teeth. “I know it’s not fair, to myself or the people I could meet, but.” The corners of her eyes sting; she tries to blink it away. “What happens if I meet someone else that I end up opening up to, and—”

“I _won’t_ let that happen,” Weiss curls her fingers tighter over Blake’s knee, brow set firm. “As long as you’re my friend, that will _never_ happen again.”

Blake’s smile is loose, curled over tender words she can’t seem to choke out. She rests her hand over Weiss’s instead, presses against Weiss’s fingers with her thumb.

Weiss sighs, draws her hand away. She curls her mug against her chest like she’s seeking the warmth Blake finds herself missing.

“If you want…” Weiss looks to the floor. “I can help you make a profile.”

Blake lulls her head to the side. She snatches a cookie and stuffs it whole into her mouth. Weiss wrinkles her nose.

“Youh realluh thingk I shouwd?” Blake sits upright, swallows; Weiss scoffs.

“Blake—!”

“Which app should I use?”

Weiss sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose. Blake thinks she’ll be the reason Weiss develops crow’s feet before she’s twenty-five.

“I don’t know, maybe Tinder?” When Blake pulls a face, Weiss gestures towards Blake’s phone sitting on the coffee table. “Or there’s Bumble, Her, Hey Vina.”

Blake eyes her suspiciously, takes her mug from the coaster. “How do you know all of these?”

Weiss leans back against the arm of the couch. “I don’t live under a rock.”

Blake takes a long, slow sip. “I think I should only try one, for now.”

Weiss nods. “If that what makes you comfortable, then I won’t push. Now,” she snatches Blake’s phone off the table; Blake almost spills her tea all over her lap when she lurches forward a hair too late. “Let’s get started.”

 

-

 

“That’s _not_ a good picture.”

“Why not? It’s funny.”

“It’s unprofessional.”

“I thought the point of this was to make _friends_. I'm not uploading my resume.”

“If you want to put a picture of you and Sun with cake frosting smeared across your foreheads like the Lion King, be my guest.”

 

-

 

It’s nearly quarter till midnight by the time the two finish fussing over Blake’s profile, writing and re-writing her bio, fighting over what pictures to should upload, how many. All that’s left is to set her preferences, which is where Blake’s thumb hesitates.

“I know you said that this app was Faunus friendly, but.” She hovers over the _Faunus Only_ slider, fighting with herself and her instinct to tap on it. “I want to branch out.”

“Then do that.” Weiss is nursing her third cup of coffee—she says it’s still decaf, but Blake can see the twitch in her fingers. “There are plenty of people one there who don’t care.”

“But there are still people who _do_.”

Weiss stuffs what has to be her ninth cookie of the night into her mouth. “I’ll weed out the bastards.” Her swallow is rough, undignified; in a strange way, Blake’s happy to be the only one to see Weiss relaxed, hair falling loose over her cheeks and crumbs on her shirt. “You can tell off the bat who is and isn’t a jackass.”

Blake laughs, but it’s hesitant. “Okay.”

She scrolls through the rest of her options—age range, location, men or women (Blake selects both)—then hands her phone over to Weiss for approval.

Weiss hums, takes one last look over Blake’s profile. Her answering grin is wide and crooked, curled wicked at the edges.

“Blake Belladonna,” she announces, taps Blake’s screen, hands her phone back with a flourish of her wrist. “Welcome to Tinder.”

 

-

 

To: **Ice Queen**

[August 13, 2:56pm]

Attachment: 3 Images

Seriously? “Hey kitty cat”? Did they honestly think that would work?

**Ice Queen**

[3:04pm]

Men do nothing but disappoint.

**Me**

[3:05pm]

This has been nothing but a pain in the ass. Can people not read? I literally wrote I’m only looking for friends.

**Ice Queen**

[3:07pm]

It is a dating app.

**Me**

[3:07pm]

THIS WAS YOUR IDEA!!

_Read at 3:08pm_

 

_-_

 

To: **Skunk Wukong**

[August 13, 8:45pm]

Attachment: 1 Image

EW!!!

**Skunk Wukong**

 [8:46pm]

Word!!! Lol

I see u took my advice!

**Me**

[8:47pm]

I can’t believe I had to see this with my own two eyes.

**Skunk Wukong**

[8:48pm]

Did u at least swipe right

**Me**

[8:51pm]

Fuck no.

**Skunk Wukong**

[8:52pm]

;(

 

-

 

The fluorescents’ buzz is more grating than usual.

Blake’s ears twitch, flush against her head as she tries to focus on the blinking cursor before her. She should have sent this email on Friday, if she’s being honest with herself—not that it was anything crucial, but there were plenty of morons who would ignore her requests until the last possible moment. She had no idea if it was the way she slept, or if the caffeine just hadn’t kicked in yet, but she felt a thumping pressure build behind her eyes the more effort she put into concentrating. With a sigh, Blake slumped back against her chair, reaching for her styrofoam cup of now-cold tea.

She heard a shuffling of papers from the desk across from hers. She looks up to find Ilia studying her, a worried frown fixed on her lips.

“Are you alright?” Ilia asks, leaning forward on her elbow, resting her chin in her palm. “You seem off.”

Blake sighs. “Yeah, I think so.” She takes another bite of her banana. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“Everything okay?” Ilia toys with her mousepad. “You’ve been acting kind of weird all week.”

Blake sighs, her leg bouncing. “We’re friends, right?”

Ilia’s smile is small but no less rewarding. “Of course.”

Relenting, Blake wheels herself to Ilia’s side of the table, wrenching her phone from her pocket. “I have a confession.”

Ilia turns, rests her arm on the desk. “You sound _serious_. Did you kill someone?”

A laugh. “I wish.” At that, Ilia quirks a brow. “I downloaded Tinder.”

A bright pink blush burns under Ilia’s cheeks, her spots flaring red. “H-how is killing someone preferable?”

“Because of this.” Blake leans in; Ilia inches slightly backwards, clings to the desk.

The app chugs to life. Blake flicks through an _archive_ of unread messages and stops on one closest to the bottom. She shoves it into Ilia’s hands and taps her fingers against her thigh.

Ilia squints, holds the phone closer to her face. “I bet I can make your kitty purr— _Oh, my God_ ,” she nearly drops the phone, half throws it back in Blakes lap. “Oh, my God.”

“I feel like I need a shower every time I open this thing.”

“ _Then why did you even download it!_ ” Ilia scrubs at her cheeks, steadfastly turns back to her monitor, clicking on everything just to make noise.

“My friends think I need new friends.”

“Some friends you have.”

Blake sighs. “They mean well. They love me, of course, but.” She grips her sleeve tight around her elbow. “I had… something happened a year ago and they just think it would be good for me to break out of my routine.”

Ilia’s eyes soften as she swivels back to face Blake. Leaning forward, she touches Blake’s wrist where she holds herself. “Are you okay?”

Blake lets the question bloom, turns her words over on her tongue, wants to taste a truth, wants to dampen the burning of bile that claws through her chest.

A watery smile tugs slow at the corners of her mouth. “I will be.”

Ilia doesn’t seem to be satisfied, but doesn’t push, leans back in her chair, lets her fingers fall from Blake’s wrist.

“I think it’d be nice.” A grimace cuts through her smile. “If people would stop being disgusting.”

Ilia shrugs, the corner of her mouth tugging to a half smile. “Men.”

“Tell me about it.”

 

-

 

It’s a Tuesday night; Sun’s music is too loud, and Blake can’t concentrate on her book. No matter how many times she bangs on his wall, the bass still thumps against her headboard—at some point, she swears it gets louder.

Giving up, she lays her book flat open on her chest and pulls her phone from her bedside table. There’s a message from Weiss: a photo of a squirrel on her fire escape and six crying emojis.

Blake sends back six more.

Closing her messages, Blake realizes she hasn’t opened Tinder in almost a week. The last message she got nearly gave her a migraine and she hadn’t touched it since. She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, hovers for a moment over the app before deciding to open it.

She decides to go through and get rid of all the conversations that have sent her blood boiling first. It’s a welcome relief to not have them clouding her inbox. A few chats remain open—one from a guy who keeps talking about airplanes (Blake finds him nice enough, but not entirely interesting), another from a girl who sent Blake pictures of her dog (Blake tried not to let her skin crawl), and another from a guy who showed Blake his collection Lego pirate boats he built himself (okay, Blake had to admit that that was actually kind of cool).

She swipes left through a few profiles—a girl doing a beer funnel, a guy with a Mountain Dew sweatshirt, some others that were a bit sad to look at—none of them really interesting to her.

This happens every time she opens the app up, and it’s beginning to feel a bit hopeless. There were some she matched with, but most of those who did had no intention of respecting her boundaries. A guy or girl there would message her once but never again. Quite a bit didn’t respond at all.

How was she supposed to make friends if no one would talk to her?

She’s mindlessly swiping through profiles when she catches a flash of bright blonde hair with an even brighter smile. Her heart thumps once against her ribs, chest tight as she stares at the girl’s picture.

The girl is standing cliffside with the sunrise pooling along the mountain tops behind her, the lilac in her eyes a rival to the sky itself. She’s smiling, big and bold and carefree, aviators pushed atop her head, curling her bangs. Her arm is propped up on a rock, back against a _No Trespassing_ sign.

It makes Blake smile.

She flicks through the rest of the girl’s pictures—there’s one of her throwing a girl half her size into a pool, one of her juggling what Blake really doesn’t believe are _pineapples_ , one of her drinking a beer on a balcony with a plate stacked high with french fries in front of her. In every picture, a small cowlick curls forward, standing proud and high on her head. Blake feels her smile grow as she continues looking through the girl’s profile before scrolling back up to the first picture.

_Yang_.

Without second thought, Blake swipes right.

 

/

 

It’s Wednesday morning and Blake’s hastily shoving her legs into pants she thinks are _probably_ dirty when her phone chimes.

She doesn’t bother with it, leaving it in her room as she heads to the kitchen to grab her toast. Sun is sitting on the counter eating cold pizza. He pulls the peanut butter and strawberry jam down from the cabinet he’s blocking, sets it down beside him, opens the silverware drawer with his tail and takes out a knife.

“You’re late.”

“Don’t remind me. I’m going as fast as I can,” Blake says, sweeping her hair into a bun. Sun blows air at her ears, making them twitch as she spreads the jam onto her toast. She smacks his leg. “Knock it off!”

He licks his fingers and hops down from the counter, sets the pizza box on the floor next to the trashcan. Blake eyes him, shrewd as she wipes peanut butter from the corner of her mouth.

Sun holds his hands in the air. “A pipe burst at the studio, so I’m home for the day while they try and fix it.” He wipes his hands on his boxers. “I promise I’ll take the trash today. _And_ vacuum!”

“Good,” Blake swallows a mouthful of toast, nearly chokes on it. She bites down on the corner as she heads back to her room. She shouts back a lame _thank you_ before disappearing behind her door.

Blake’s got her toothbrush hanging from her mouth when she remembers to grab her phone. When she lifts it off her dresser to put in her purse, the screen lights up.

She nearly drops it.

_Congratulations! You have a new match!_

Her fingers twitch, desperate to open it, to know if it’s her. It _has_ to be. Blake hasn’t swiped right for anyone for two weeks.

If she opens it now, she knows she’ll be late to work.

She sticks it into her back pocket, waves goodbye to Sun, and nearly misses the bus.

 

-

 

She hasn’t been able to focus the entire meeting. Ilia keeps sending her wayward glances, taking notes that she’ll no doubt share with Blake later. Ghira notices as well but pretends not to. The last time Blake was this distracted had been—

Well.

She squeezes her eyes shut, tries to combat the thoughts with the pressure. Miraculously, it works, and she begins to fade back in to the conversation around her.

Before she knows, they file one by one out of the conference room. She hurries back to her desk where she left her phone—having it with her would have been too tempting.

It’s face down next to her mousepad and Blake almost doesn’t want to flip it over. She’s breathing odd and knows Ilia will pick up on it if she keeps it up.

With a deep breath, Blake flips her phone over and taps on the notification.

She bites through her smile.

_It’s a Match!_

_You and Yang have liked each other!_

“Are you going to breathe?” Ilia teases, leaning around her monitor to peer at Blake. “You’re turning blue.”

Blake struggles to laugh. “Yeah, yeah. I’m good.”

The rest of her shift, Blake has to bite down on her smile.

 

-

 

On the bus ride home, Blake’s phone chimes.

 

**Yang**

[6:05pm]

you can stop looking for the woman of your dreams, because you just found her ;)

 

Now—this should be where she curls her lip, unmatches, and finally deletes the app with a (questionably) justifiable reason. Now should be where she accepts her fate, knows she’ll tuck her nose back into the spines of books where she could pretend the world didn’t always mock her. 

Now—

Blake's thumb hovers, unconvinced in her decision.

In the genuine way Blake thinks about how she  _should_ , she hasn’t quite pinned down the way she  _does_. Its simplicity is harmless, and it charms her in an odd sort of way where she realizes there are denominations—Yang was being playful, and aside from the poor innuendo it was, hardly lecherous in intent. Men kept wanting, demanding, taking her time, and Yang simply offered up some of her own.

The man standing beside her had been watching her smile at her phone long enough for Blake to start squirming, his focus exact and with intentions. Her fingers itch to pull on the wire, request her stop three streets too early. She taps her phone back to life and focuses, draws away from herself and down to someone else.

 

**Blake**

[6:10pm]

That couldn’t have been successful the other times you’ve used that line.

 

Almost the moment she hits send does it begin to vibrate in her hand.

 

**Yang**

[6:10pm]

so, this time it was?

 

Blake sticks her tongue in her cheek.

 

**Blake**

[6:10pm]

Didn’t say that.

**Yang**

[6:11pm]

you didn’t /not/ say it

**Blake**

[6:11pm]

Whatever helps you sleep at night, then.

**Yang**

[6:12pm]

i would sleep like a baby

 

The driver calls for her stop and Blake stands, slips in an earbud the moment she makes eye contact with the guy who had been beside her, watches his shoulders deflate.

The crosswalks take her full attention—she’s learned her lessons. Blake mulls over a response the rest of the walk home—mulls over it so long that someone gets bored of waiting.

 

**Yang**

[6:19pm]

so that pic of you and monkey boy, that your boyfriend? if not, then what’s your favorite kind of cake?

**Blake**

[6:21pm]

“Monkey boy” has a name.

**Yang**

[6:21pm]

is it lover boy?

 

Blake  _does_  curl her lip at that.

 

**Blake**

[6:22pm]

I’d rather die.

**Yang**

[6:24pm]

in that case

i think cakes are overrated

 

She quirks a brow.

 

**Blake**

[6:25pm]

Then why did you ask what my favorite kind was?

**Yang**

[6:26pm]

needed a cool segue

look

i love me some baking competition shows like it’s nobody’s business

but if the cake is 90% rice crispies then what’s the point of building a 6ft replica of Shrek if you can only eat his feet you know?

**Blake**

[6:28pm]

Wow. You came prepared for this.

Did something happen to you involving cakes as a child?

**Yang**

[6:28pm]

all im saying is grocery store sheet cake with my name misspelled is top tier gourmet, and really there’s no argument you could make to get me to change my mind

 

Despite herself, Blake hums around quiet laughter.

**Blake**

[6:30pm]

This is in the top ten of weirdest conversations I’ve ever had with a stranger.

**Yang**

[6:31pm]

if you’d like, i could start telling you mediocre jokes that barely get your attention until you don’t bother messaging back

OR

i could continue on with your theory about my deep seeded childhood trauma involving repeated offenses in the overindulgence of baked goods until one of us falls asleep

**Blake**

[6:32pm]

Hm.

Is there a third option?

 

Yang’s response is almost too quick.

 

**Yang**

[6:32pm]

in fact, there is

we could discuss my disappointing lifestyle choices involving sugar highs and lows over drinks with much more salt on their rims

 

Blake worries on her bottom lip and tries to stop the sinking feeling in her chest, tries to put more effort into footsteps, tries to focus on something other than squirming in her heels.

Yang’s gorgeous—that’s just fact. Blake won’t even try to dispute it.

But the thought of being intimate with someone sits heavy in her gut, stings at her cheek where she thought love wouldn’t hurt, clutches with panic at her chest.

She doesn’t respond until she gets home. Dropping her keys in the bowl beside her front door, Blake leaves her purse and jacket on the couch next to where Sun lounges, tapping furiously on his controller. He grunts in greeting and she heads straight for the fridge, pops open one of the few beers Sun has that she can stomach and takes a slow sip.

She pulls her phone from her back pocket and sighs.

**Blake**

[6:46pm]

I’m not looking for anything serious right now.

**Yang**

[6:46pm]

drinks don’t have to be serious

**Blake**

[6:47pm]

Or romantic.

**Yang**

[6:48pm]

friends have drinks

and i could really use one

i came across my uncle on here and i want to set myself on fire

**Blake**

[6:48pm]

!!!!

Oh my god, what the fuck

**Yang**

[6:50pm]

yeah, imagine how i feel

i told my sister and i thought she was going to throw up

**Blake**

[6:50pm]

I’m emotionally scarred for you.

**Yang**

[6:51pm]

i’ll need therapy for this

 

Fingers hovering over the keypad, Blake types her response.

 

**Blake**

[6:52pm]

Then, I suppose the only cure I can recommend is tequila.

**Yang**

[6:53pm]

god yes

when are you free?

**Blake**

[6:53pm]

I’m not sure.

**Yang**

[6:54pm]

playing platonically hard to get, i see

**Blake**

[6:55pm]

I’m a busy woman.

**Yang**

[6:55pm]

oh, i bet you are

**Blake**

[6:55pm]

Flirting counts as romantic.

**Yang**

[6:57pm]

who says i was flirting?

narcisist

 

“What are you smiling for?”

Blake spits out her beer. Groaning, she wipes her chin on the back of her hand. “What the hell, Sun?”

“You’ve been standing with the fridge door open for ten minutes smiling at your phone.” He leans onto the counter, waggles his brow, smirks something wicked. “Did you find someone cute?”

“ _No_ ,” she huffs, closes the fridge. She takes down a box of pasta from the fridge. “Hungry?”

“Starving.” Sun pats his belly. “But seriously, Blake. What’s up?”

“I just found someone nice to talk to, is all.” She grabs a pot from the rack above the sink. “Grab the prawns out of the freezer, please.”

“Is he ripped?”

“Not a he.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Not really looking for that.”

“You don’t have to look to _notice_ , dude.” He steps closer—too close for Blake’s liking with that look on his face. “Can I see her?”

“Absolutely n—”

He snatches her phone from her back pocket with his tail and darts out of the room.

“ _Sun!_ ”

He hops up to the shelf he knows Blake can’t reach, wiggling to keep his balance, knocking over a plant. He swipes Blake’s phone open and grins. “Yang, huh?”

“Give me back my phone!”

“Oh, she’s _cute_ ,” Sun drawls, a crooked smile drew across his face. Blake wants to smack it off. “ _Really_ cute. And she wants to get drinks!” He flips her phone around to show her like she had no idea. She snatches her phone out of his hands, has half a mind to toss his controller out the window. “Are you gonna go?”

“ _No_.” She barks it out too fast, too committed. Sun nearly frowns. On a sigh, she rubs her forehead. “I don’t know. Probably not?”

“Why?” He hops down from the shelf and tilts her phone screen towards him. She lets him this time—it’s not like she can hide it now—his frown offset. He scrolls through the message, and that’s when his mouth quirks; Blake tries not to mimic him, knowing her lips want to do the same. “She’s funny.”

Blake fights a losing battle; her lips draw up crooked at the corners. “She is.”

“So go for it, dude!” He slaps her shoulder a bit too hard, but she doesn’t flinch. “The worst that could happen is that you get drinks with a hot girl and you go home alone.”

She jerks her head back, not meeting his eyes. Pink blooms hot and heavy in her cheeks. “I don’t want to have sex with her.”

“Then say yes.” Sun plops back down on the couch, kicks his feet up onto the coffee table. “You’ll regret saying no.”

(She hates to admit that he’s probably right).

It’s been a bit since Yang sent her a message. Blake pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, bites down as she opens up the app.

 

**Blake**

[7:17pm]

I’ll check my schedule and let you know.

 

She shouldn’t be expecting an immediate reply, but she can’t quiet the thump in her chest when her phone vibrates moments later.

 

**Yang**

[7:18pm]

i will be holding you to that

 

-

 

(As Blake hits the pillow that night, cheeks aching, hopes and feels and nearly _prays_ that Yang stands true to her word.).


	2. here comes a feeling you thought you'd forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slow and solid, Yang's becoming a constant, an inevitability. Blake likes it.
> 
> Maybe a bit too much.
> 
> But after everything, she thinks the universe owes her one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me writing this chapter with a charcoal face mask on, unable to emote: [jenna marbles voice] it’s leisure time
> 
> ALSO wowow !!! thank you for all the lovely feedback!! i was nervous about getting back into writing but you guys are so SUPPORTIVE and got me all EXCITED i hope you continue to read !!
> 
> also also, i changed up the messaging formatting b/c timestamps...are not my friend
> 
> third also bc brevity is the wit of the weak, thank you to erin (explosivesky) for letting me bounce dumb ideas off of her, a true mvp

Mimosas probably hadn’t been the best choice, now that Blake thinks about it. She had rushed out the door with toothpaste still in her mouth; the pulp scrapes her throat, makes her grimace. Weiss smiles at her from over the rim of her glass, amused.

Blake reaches for her water; it does little in the way of relief, the taste trapped on her tongue. She plucks a roll from the basket in between them, takes her time pulling it apart and smearing butter all over it to the point Weiss’s face mimics her own.

“As I was saying,” Weiss sips from her glass. “Winter’s coming into town soon.”

Blake finishes chewing before she answers. “Are you okay with that?”

Weiss lifts her shoulder, noncommittal. “I’m not sure. All I know is she won’t be staying in my apartment.” She unfolds her napkin, places it over her lap.

“Why do you say that?”

There’s an almost-scoff from the other side of the table. “Last time she stayed with me I could practically feel how broke I am.” The crease between her brow deepens. “At least she’s not Whitley. Did I tell you he texted me a picture of him on my father’s yacht a few days ago?”

Blake pauses, torn piece of roll halfway to her mouth. “Hasn’t he been ignoring you for, like, nearly a year?”

Weiss laughs, mirthless, fingers drumming on the table. “Eleven and a half months. He’s showing off what I turned down.”

There’s a light breeze this morning—it flutters against the cloth covering their table, causes Blake’s ears to twitch. She wipes her fingers, tightens the scarf over her neck. Weiss tugs her sweater back over her shoulders, hides a shiver.

“I still stand by what I said before,” Blake lays her hand on Weiss’s from across the table. “I think what you did was brave.”

Rolling her eyes, Weiss shifts in her seat but flips her hand over so she’s properly holding Blakes, gives it a deft squeeze. She picks at Blake’s flaking nail polish.

“Turning down the opportunity to inherit my father’s company sure _felt_ brave,” Weiss lets go a long, deep breath. “Up until I saw him close my account.”

Their waitress returns with their food; Blake nearly drools over her salmon, has to remind herself not to inhale it before Weiss even picks up her fork. She waits for Weiss to take a bite first—it takes a considerable amount of self-restraint. They eat in silence for a bit, enjoying the sounds of the city morning around them, the clicking of boots, the roll of idle engines. From a block over, Blake hears a woman laughing.

“It’s just,” Weiss starts again. She picks at her crepes, squishes a blueberry with the prongs of her fork. “When I use my card, people see the last name, and they _expect_ something of me. Or, that’s not quite right.” She scoops her flattened berry through her crème anglaise. “They assume. They assume that I’m just like them, that I approve of the practices and the choices my father made.” She stabs at more of the of the fruit on her plate. “Even though there are at least, like, a _hundred_ articles about my brother assuming the inheritance.”

“People will come around,” Blake dabs her napkin on the corner of her mouth, sips her water. “Who knows. Maybe if you’re lucky, there are paparazzi photos floating around somewhere of you spending time with two dirty, dirty Faunus.”

Weiss doesn’t laugh, but her mouth curls with amusement. Blake knows it’s enough.

“Why would that help?”

Blake shrugs, smiling. “Maybe it’ll humble you.”

When Weiss scoffs, Blake’s phone chimes on the table. She reaches for it, an apology already halfway off her tongue.

“I’m sorry, I thought I silenced it.”

Weiss eats her crepe properly, digging into it with as little decency as Blake expects. She waves her hand, dismissing, and Blake flips her phone over to check and make sure it’s not Sun and Neptune setting her apartment on fire.

Instead, there’s a flutter in her in her chest to rival the breeze, hummingbird trapped beneath her breast.

 _Yang has sent you a message_.

Not the unobservant type, Weiss quirks a brow from over her plate. “Everything okay?”

Quickly, Blake shoves her phone into her pocket, no doubt of the pink pooling in her cheeks, the heat in her palms. “Y-yeah, no. Everything is good.”

Weiss points with her fork. “Was that Sun?”

Blake nods, too emphatic. Weiss _definitely_ picks up on that. “Yep, just asking where the powdered sugar was.”

Blue eyes narrow, search Blake’s face, settle on her too red cheeks. “ _Really_.”

She keeps nodding even as she takes a _large_ sip of water. “For sure.”

“You met someone, didn’t you?”

Her phone vibrates again in her pocket.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She nearly chokes on her salmon, shoving it into her mouth with too much gusto.

“You seem to forget that I’ve known you for years,” Weiss twirls her fork, pointing at Blake’s cheeks. “I _know_ when you’re lying to me, Blake.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Yes, you are.”

“ _No_ , I’m not.”

“ _Yes_ , you are.”

A sigh. “It’s not a big deal,” Blake relents, slumping back into her chair. Weiss lights up, a grin breaking against her cheeks. “It’s just someone from—”

“From Tinder?” Weiss leans her elbows on the table, presses her smile against her hands. “Is he handsome? Is she cute?”

“I’m trying to make  _friends_ , Weiss,” Blake pouts. “Not hook up with anyone.”

“So?” Weiss practically bounces—if it were about _anything_ else, Blake would be teasing her. “Tell me about them!”

“Weiss—”

“Without me, you wouldn’t even know them,” Weiss finally points with a finger, not her silverware. “You _owe_ me.”

“I owe you nothing.”

“Please!”

“Shut up, Ice Queen.”

“Oh, grow up, Belladonna.”

 

-

 

The way Yang talks to her—familiar and soft in its warmth, peppering emojis between oddly profound moments of intrigue and anecdotes about like how hot the coffee was that she spilled down her shirt, typed out like she’s always smiling when she presses send—it’s like they were once old souls together. There’s nearly a two-months long catalog of messages they’ve racked up within a few weeks, and Blake never has to second guess herself. Yang’s not one to let conversations die; never boring, Blake supposes, but the constant fumble into new topics without so much of a beat to interject is something she has to get used to.

 

_( **Blake**_

_You broke your arm /six/ times?_

_**Yang** _

_and my dad wouldn’t let me keep ANY of_   _the casts. cuz they smelled or something_

 _also, i really hate when these so-called “sandwich artists” put_   _MUSTARD on my turkey sub after i SPECIFICALLY said_   _NO MUSTARD, just because they feel like it. amateurs_

_**Blake** _

_It’s like riding a roller coaster with you._

_**Yang** _

_oh man, have i told you about the time i hurled_   _on a coaster and it hit someone in line?)_

 

To Yang’s credit, she’s never dull. She’s emphatic in a way that’s nearly insatiable, like she’s always excited to talk to Blake, like she’ll die if she doesn’t tell Blake about her Buzzfeed quiz results, like Blake has to know how good the salad she had for lunch was, like it was slowly becoming her favorite part of the day.

(Truth be told, it was already Blake’s).

She looks forward to her phone chiming before breakfast after Yang gets back from her morning runs.

 

_( **Blake**_

_How you take pleasure in that_ _is beyond me._

_**Yang** _

_how else do you expect me to impress you?_

_with my humor?)_

She looks forward to her phone chiming on her lunch breaks, silly anecdotes about Yang’s little sister with an even bigger addiction to sugar than Yang herself.

 

_( **Blake**_

_She… ate 16 cookies?_

_**Yang** _

_she ate every. single. one._

_**Blake** _

_How old is she?_

_**Yang** _

_TWENTY-TWO)_

 

She looks forward to her phone chiming when she’s cooking dinner, Sun having to remind her more than once to stir the pan, having to start dinner over himself after she burns onions to the bottom.

 

_( **Blake**_

_And then I kneed him in the balls._

_**Yang** _

_you’re shitting me_

_**Blake** _

_I wish._

_I haven’t been allowed back to_ _that gym since._

_:( They had really good smoothies.)_

 

It’s like a rush that she chases, clinging to her phone so as to not miss a single buzz, falling asleep with it next to her on the pillows, waking to the screen lighting up with Yang’s name on the top. Her father notices her nose buried into her phone when she should be working, but he never pries, more than happy to see his daughter smiling without expectation. Her mother remarks that Blake sounds happier during one of their calls, and Blake smiles into her palm, hides her smile behind the rim of her mug even though her mother can’t see.

Sun is _smug_. Weiss is pleased. Neptune has no clue what’s happening.

Blake hates to admit that maybe they had been right about this. It’s a new sort of habit that she’s forming, one that she indulges, gluttonous for the attention Yang showers her with. A witty text slowly replaces Saturday night whiskey sours, the chime of her phone filling the silence when Sun is out of the apartment. There’s someone to bounce ideas off of when Weiss has gone to sleep, and Sun is too drunk to hold a conversation. There’s someone to bid her good morning other than Sun with pizza stains all over his pajamas and morning breath worse than wood rot.

Slow and solid, Yang becomes a constant, the inevitable. Blake likes it.

Maybe a bit too much.

But after everything, she thinks the universe owes her one.

 

-

 

And, true to her word, Yang holds her to it.

Blake hadn’t been lying to her— _really_. Her schedule was crammed. Between meetings and team building and nosy clients at work, previous arrangements with Weiss and Sun, errands and dinners with her parents, her allotted free time is slim to none.

Yang is more than happy to wait, it seems, never one to press it beyond the first message. She understands—Blake’s an adult, she has to take care of herself, has to put food on her table and make sure her friends and family don’t think she’s become a hermit. Yang has a life of her own, too, and Blake was too optimistic to think their free days would line up. Yang’s an engineering apprentice—which, like, _wow_ —with a schedule busier than Blake would have thought, considering all the time she has to send Blake paragraphs long messages about nothing important.

And Blake wants to go— _really_. It’s always in the back of her mind, what meeting Yang would be like, how she’d dress, where they’d go. Would they get dinner, too? But— that’d be a date, and even though Yang toes the line of platonic on a daily (it’s her personality, her bright and sunny disposition and Blake can’t blame her for it, isn’t going to ask her to stop, either), she knows where they stand. She seems more than content with where they are, what they are— _friends_ , Blake reminds herself, _this is good for you_ —that it gives Blake more and more confidence to open up, dropping bits of information but never too much, and Yang never asks for more.

So, as brash as Yang is, Blake shouldn’t be surprised that she asks for something more first.

 

**Yang**

can i at least have your snapchat? ruby thinks i’m making you up

 

And it’s weird, the spike in her pulse when she reads it like something has come crumbling down—no, it’s like a door opening, an invite for Blake to step into or turn away. She knows Yang would not be offended if she turned it down if she wanted to stay strictly through messages until they met, knows Yang would be supportive no matter what.

Other thoughts claw their way forward, despite Blake’s best efforts. What Yang sounds like, what her home must look like, containing that amount of sunshine, if she has posters on her walls, if she has any plants. She’s intriguing, more than Blake would have given her credit for had they not been constantly in each other’s business.

There’s something else that’s stopping her, and it’s uncomfortable, twitching on top of her head like she’s suddenly ashamed. Her Faunus heritage was something her father taught her to be proud of, and Blake had done plenty of growing, growing into herself and her bones and knows that the ears that sit atop her head are as essential to her as her voice, as her passions, as her causes.

Blake _knows_ , she _knows_ Yang doesn’t care. If she had, they wouldn’t have made it past the introductions; Blake has a way of weeding racists out within seconds—she’s had practice her whole life.

Yang is different—Blake knows this.

But she still has to be sure.

 

**Blake**

I need you to answer a question for me, first.

And I need you to be 100% honest with me.

 

Her response is instantaneous.

 

**Yang**

of course

is everything okay?

 

Taking her bottom lip between her teeth, Blake breathes against the heat coiled in her chest that crushes against her lungs.

 

**Blake**

We’ll see.

 

Her breath is shaky.

 

**Blake**

Like, I know you already know. Obviously. You can see my ears on my profile. I’m not trying to hide anything.

But, are you really okay with Faunus? With /me/ being a Faunus?

My gut instinct is to trust you, but I’ve been wrong before.

 

She sees Yang’s typing bubbles appear and disappear a few times. Her blood runs cold, her fingers numb. If Yang’s not who Blake thought she was—kind and patient and warm—then she’ll handle it. Maybe not well, but she’ll handle it.

Somehow, she’ll have to.

Her phone finally buzzes, tongue pressed to her teeth as she slides the notification open, ears flat against her head.

 

**Yang**

does being a faunus give you a genetic predisposition for smelling bad?

 

A pause. Blake doesn’t know what she had really been expecting.

 

**Blake**

Not… that I know of?

**Yang**

then you are still my friend

i don’t care what extra appendages you do or don’t have

i’m not a lunatic

you’re a person just as much as me. anyone who makes you feel less than is going to start knowing how my fist feels against their teeth.

 

Blake’s laugh is watery, tears warm in her eyes as she wipes them away, smudging mascara over her cheekbones.

 

**Blake**

You constantly surprise me.

**Yang**

no one messes with you now that we’re friends, i’ll beat someone down

and if it’s any consolation

i think your ears are really cute

**Blake**

Gross.

**Yang**

:-)

 

-

 

**Blake**

Wait, you’d stop being my friend if I smelled bad?

**Yang**

a lady can only tolerate so much

also, what kind of username is “gambol-shroud”

**Blake**

Look.

I came up with it when I still wore too much eyeliner.

**Yang**

so, like

yesterday

**Blake**

The hole you’re digging is looking mighty deep.

 

-

 

The first picture Blake gets is almost too innocent. It’s not even a picture of Yang.

Instead, Blake assumes this must be Ruby, sitting on a couch looking worse than Blake that time she woke up in Neptune’s bathtub.

(She’s promised herself to _never_ tell Yang about that).

Her hair is wild, probably the worst case of bedhead Blake has ever seen. It sticks out at all angles, flat and frizzy all at once, curled and knotted like she’s been through a high-powered wind tunnel. Crawling up Ruby’s side is a small corgi, the shoulder of her sweater in its mouth, all too happy to be drooling on her.

Overlaid in text from Yang is: _this is what happens when you eat 5 pixy stix at three in the morning_

Blake’s laugh is not her own; it echoes, draws the attention of Sun from across the kitchen table, who had been busy shoveling Cap’n Crunch down his gullet. He raises his brow, cheeks too stuffed with sugar bombs for a real smirk to find its way to his mouth, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. Blake shoots him a glare. She hopes he chokes.

She turns her attention back to her phone and doesn’t bother trying to hide her smile as she takes a long, slow sip of her tea.

 

**Gambol-shroud**

Oh my god, she looks like a train wreck.

**sunnylildragon**

i’m having such a good time right now

i’m blasting mo bamba and this is the first time i’ve seen genuine hatred in her eyes

i didn’t think that was an emotion ruby could feel

it should be illegal to have this much fun

**Gambol-shroud**

Can I please have a video? Get up close on her face.

**sunnylildragon**

with pleasure

 

-

 

She can’t get the sound of Yang’s laughter out of her head for days.

It was a wild, crackling jolt, thunder and lightning striking together at once. Delightful as the video of Ruby was, all Blake can replay is the moment right at the end where Yang lets it slip, and Blake’s never had a favorite sound before—

“When you come over for dinner tomorrow,” her father paws her shoulder, his hand just about engulfing her left side. She startles so abruptly she nearly topples out of her chair. Ghira smiles, pleased with himself. “Will you finally tell your mother and I why you keep smiling at your phone so much?”

Ilia is barely out of earshot—she turns, finds Blake’s eyes over the top of her monitor and quirks a brow, mouth curved in an almost smile. Blake rubs at her cheeks, serving to only make them glow hotter.

“ _Dad_ ,” she huffs, shoving her belongings into her purse, jamming her earbuds in. “Knock it off.”

She’s pretending to scroll through her music as he stands there, but Ghira knows her well. When he places his hand on her shoulder this time, it’s much less assertive. Blake looks up at him, cheeks still too warm, not exactly meeting his eyes but enough so that Ghira knows she’s been caught.

“It’s just nice to see you smiling,” he says, and _oh_. Blake had nearly forgotten that her father had seen it all, both first and second hand, the crying, the falling, her pain. Anguish sat in the wrinkles around his eyes when he looks her over—she’s noticed it softening recently, and she guesses she’s figured out why.

But he’s still her father, and Blake is a grown woman, but sometimes she doesn’t always have to be. “I _smile_ ,” she crosses her arms, pouts.

Ghira’s eyes soften. “Not like that, you don’t.”

The longer she stands there the pinker her cheeks bloom. She bids her father goodbye with a kiss on the cheek, a hastily muttered see you Thursday, and Ghira looks on as she pulls her phone from her pocket, and as the elevator doors closing behind her, Blake begins to smile.

 

-

 

**sunnylildragon**

what does your apartment look like?

**Gambol-shroud**

An absolute wreck.

**sunnylildragon**

c’mon

i showed you the leak in my ceiling yesterday

show me your mess

**Gambol-shroud**

I’ll show you my balcony.

**sunnylildragon**

and your herb garden!!!

 

Blake rolls her eyes, fights off a smile.

 

**Gambol-shroud**

And my herb garden.

 

-

 

Dinner is a much livelier affair this time. Kali’s invited over Weiss, who’s there before Blake’s even set foot in the door in step with her father, having driven the two of them back from work.

They’re curled over a box of those cookies Weiss can’t get enough of, mugs curled warmly against their chests, laughing with their hands over their mouths. Weiss is no stranger to the Belladonna’s—she and Blake graduated from university together, summa cum laude. When Weiss was financially capable of squeezing out from her father’s thumb, she spent many a night at the Belladonna house, pretending not to cry into her spaghetti, falling asleep next to Blake during midnight reruns of _Ninjas of Love_.

Blake knows her mother would happily adopt Weiss, if Weiss would ever allow it. Her father preferred her company much more than Sun’s.

“Miss Schnee,” Ghira booms from the foyer, unraveling his scarf from his neck—he’s almost as happy to see her as he is his wife. Blake struggles to get her gloves off her fingers. “It’s lovely to see you.”

“I hope you don’t mind, dear,” Kali calls out to Blake, moving down the hall to greet her husband with a kiss. “Weiss called to ask for stamps, and I invited her to dinner.”

Blake loosens the bow tying her hair back; she runs her hands through it, ridding it of any tangles, mindful of her too cold ears. “Why would I mind?” Blake steps into the kitchen, accepting a mug of tea from her mother, kissing her on the cheek, hugging Weiss with one arm, a quiet but pleased _hey_ following her reach. “I’ve been meaning to talk to her, anyway.”

“Oh, I _know_ ,” Weiss croons, raising her brows as she sips from her mug. “You mom was telling me _all_ about your new friend.” She wags her finger towards the phone in Blake’s hand. “Well, at least what she knows about it.” She lifts her shoulders, hips against the counter. Blake nearly spills her tea down her sweater. “Which is more than me, apparently.”

“I—!” Blake sets her mug down, runs a hand over her face, plants the other on her hip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“ _Not_ true!” Comes another voice from the front door, and oh, _of course_. Sun comes barreling down the hallway, boots clunking on the hardwood floor.

The pleasant calm on Ghira’s face sullies, a sigh lifting his chest. “Wukong, please. Your shoes.”

Sun blinks down at his feet. “Oh! Right! Sorry, Mr. B, sir.” Sun shouts as he shuffles back to the front door. Something falls over—Blake’s pretty sure it’s Sun. He scrambles back to the kitchen and takes the mug Kali offers him with his tail, taking a long, slow sip despite the steam trailing over his wind-bitten cheeks. He hums in satisfaction, lowers the tea to the countertop beside him. “Thanks again for having me over, Mrs. B.”

Kali gives her husband’s arm a squeeze, leaning into him. Grumbling, he wraps his arm over her shoulders. “Of course,” her smile warms her eyes, crow’s feet painted with purple shadow. “I couldn’t leave you out of paella night. Plus,” Kali nudges Blake’s sock covered toes with her slipper. “You’re the only one that can tell me what Blake is hiding from me.”

Blake nearly jolts forward. “I’m not hiding—”

“It’s a girl,” Sun drawls, moving to help Kali set the table.

All but Sun’s eyes snap to Blake.

 _Oh, for fuck's sake_.

Weiss seems impressed more than anything, taking an appreciative sip from her newly acquired glass of water. Ghira stutters, mouth undecided in being open or closed. Kali simply tilts her head to the side, looks her daughter up and down, seems to settle on something before smiling to herself, moving the pot from the stove and into the dining room, all with her eyes closed.

“Ghira, hon, pick up your jaw. It’s not like we didn’t see this coming.” Kali quirks a brow his way, mouth curled in a tease. Everyone’s followed her into the dining room aside from Blake, who’s still standing ramrod still in the middle of the kitchen, skin too hot, burning her.

“Well, I feel a bit better now,” Weiss calls out into the kitchen. “At least there’s a reason for you being so withholding.”

Ghira rubs his chin as his wife hands him a glass of water. “Now all those _Sports Illustrated_ magazines we found while we were cleaning your room make so much sense.”

Blake feels the hair on the back of her neck stand to attention. Her ears twitch back, hands balled into fists, finally stomping into the dining room. “ _Dad!_ ”

Weiss and Sun share a _look_ , barely keeping their childish laughter to themselves. Kali plates dinner, passing dishes around the table, unaffected. Ghira nods to himself like he’s remembering something, settles with a neutral line to his mouth.

 _This is it_ , Blake thinks. _I want to die_.

“It’s not _like_ _that_ , and— This is not a topic for a dinner discussion,” Blake shovels rice into her mouth, looking to stall. It hurts to swallow. “It’s not fair that you guys are backing me into a corner.”

“We’re excited, baby,” Kali acquiesces. “It was hard to see you hurting. Now that there’s someone making you smile again, it’s like we can all finally breathe again.”

Eyes from around the table train on her, gentle and kind and familiar rather than inquisitive.

All those she loves are sat around a table before her—there’s enough from each hand that reaches out to her, each careful smile, that it’s an outpouring, a sense of floating above waves that once choked. It’s encompassing, a type of love that doesn’t consume—doesn’t take and take until she’s bruised and breaking free in the middle of the night—it’s an offering, waiting for Blake to reach out, to take what she deserves.

So, she does.

Smiling into her glass, Blake closes her eyes. “Her name is Yang.”

 

-

 

She and Ilia have never been acquainted outside of work. Ilia jokes that they’re work wives—Blake jokes that she’s the work husband (“ _You always give me snacks when I forget my lunch_.”) They’re the most productive outreach specialists in the entire office, regardless of whatever nepotism claims are hurled their way through water cooler gossip. They’re proactive, they’re concise, they’re responsible, and best of all—they worked well together.

Which should translate outside of the workplace, right?

Blake thought so.

But as it turns out, Ilia is even more awkward than her two in the morning Facebook posts.

It takes much, much longer than Blake expected for Ilia to warm up to her than she initially planned. They were en route to the florist; Blake wanted to get a Sun a bouquet of sunflowers (his favorite) to cheer him up from the cold he’d been battling for a few days. Ilia had been texting her all morning silly memes, and Blake asked if she wanted to join her on her errands today. Ilia had emphatically agreed, and Blake was more than happy, stepping from her comfort zone, reaching out. It was all going well when they met at the park downtown.

And then Blake opened her mouth.

It’s not as if she said anything offensive, she just spoke. And when there wasn’t the pretense of work or a screen between them, she quickly realized that they were starting over at step one, from work friends to real friends.

It was harder than she thought. Yang had made it too easy. Her expectations were, obviously, skewed.

“So,” Blake snaps her gum, pressing the button to use the crosswalk. “Do you have anything you need to do today?”

Ilia shakes her head, stuffing her hand into her pockets. “Not that I know of.”

Blake nods, looks out toward the road ahead of them. “Alright.”

This is fucking painful.

When the little man pops up on the sign across the way and they started walking, Blake speaks again.

“Hey, Ilia.” Ilia doesn’t look up from where she’s diligently crunching on every leaf they pass but makes a noise of acknowledgment. “I never really asked, but. How did you get involved with the White Fang?”

There’s a shift in the air between them; the freckles on Ilia’s face darken to deep red, a small curve ghosting at her lips. Her answering shrug is a bit bashful, the heel of her boot kicking a rock ahead of them on the sidewalk.

With her tension released, Blake relaxes, too.

“All my life, I had something hanging over me.” Ilia tilts her head back, the wind cutting past her jaw. “My parents chose to live their lives like humans. And that’s totally fine,” Ilia looks to her, and Blake smiles, encouraging. “It was easy for us to be passing.”

“But you didn’t want to?”

“No,” Ilia’s smile stretches, takes up space in her cheeks. “I didn’t.”

They walk through another crosswalk before Ilia continues. “It’s not that I didn’t see the benefit in doing so, like. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been tempted in doing so right before I was kicked out of after-school sports or clubs. Everyone thought being a Faunus gave me some advantage against all the humans who _worked hard to earn their spot_ ,” she huffs, rolling her eyes, a bite to her tone. “I never fit in. I didn’t even  _meet_ another Faunus until my senior year of high school.

“But then my first day of college came, and I got lost on campus,” she quips. Blake lets out a small laugh. “No one would help me find my building and the more I asked around, the darker my scales got. It was embarrassing. People kept staring.

“And then someone didn’t. A girl with rabbit ears nearly as long as her torso, I swear. She had been handing out flyers in one of the quads and pointed me in the right direction. She handed me one, and it was for a Faunus and Human advocacy group on campus. And it was like something just _clicked_.”

In a slow breath, Blake says, “Like you suddenly just knew that you could make a difference.”

Ilia nodded emphatically. “Exactly. It was like I was suddenly able to contribute in some way, even if it was small. I made posters, organized rallies, and by the time I graduated, we had finally convinced the Dean to abolish segregated sports groups. It was empowering.”

“I remember the day my dad was reading your resume,” the curve of Blake’s mouth is fond. “He looked up at from his desk and said,” she puffs out her chest, much to Ilia’s amusement. “ _Blake, I think I just found someone who wants to change the world_.”

Blake has never seen Ilia so red. Her smile brightened the entirety of her, the wrinkling around her eyes, the laugh lines curled in her cheeks, the dimple in her chin.

“It means a lot to me, even just hearing you say that.”

Blake holds out her arm. Without hesitation, Ilia takes it and they step in sync, moving with purpose.

“It’s the truth,” Blake muses, kicking the rock before Ilia has a chance. “You’ve been one of the best additions to the White Fang we’ve had in a long time.”

The grin she gets back is cheeky. “Other than you, of course.”

Blake’s is just hearty. “Oh, of course.”

“You’re a good friend, Blake,” Ilia nudges her side and step into florist’s shop side-by-side, and it’s like Blake’s been waiting to hear that her whole life.

 

-

 

**Blake**

What kind of food do you like?

 

It’s an innocent enough message, she thinks. Sun’s out with Neptune and Scarlet, unresponsive to her texts. She has a feeling Weiss is with them—she’s radio silent, too. Thumping too loud in her chest, her heart deafens, the worst part being that she’s nervous.

It’s not like she’s asking Yang on a date, but it feels like something close to it. She’s gone over her schedule only a mere twenty-six times, and she knows Yang has next Thursday night off, remembers her saying something about taking Ruby to the dentist (she was too afraid to go alone; Blake feels for her). Blake doesn’t have work the following Friday—her father had a business meeting back in Menagerie over the weekend and gave everyone the day off. It’s the perfect opportunity.

But suddenly, Blake has a hard time forming sentences.

That message itself had taken her nearly ten _minutes_ to decide on after variation upon variation of what was essentially the same question: Where is your favorite place to get drinks? Do you want to meet up next week? Are you still interested in going out with me?

The message she did send felt stupid now; she doesn’t know if Yang will pick up on her intentions, which means Blake has to actually ask, which makes her feel ill.

It takes Yang a bit to respond. There’s a snapchat that pops up before her message is returned.

 

**Yang**

chicken fingers

but don’t tell my sister

i won’t let her buy them anymore after she burnt an entire bag at 4 am

 

Blake raises a brow.

 

**Blake**

I want to hear that story.

 

She exhales; her hands shake.

 

**Blake**

Maybe over drinks?

 

And then, in true Yang fashion, she messages back almost instantly.

 

**Yang**

oh FUCK YES

i was starting to think you were blowing me off

finally

i can make fun of your herb garden in person!

**Blake**

You like my herb garden!

You said my basil was cute.

**Yang**

i have no recollection of this

anyway

yes please! when are you free?

**Blake**

Next Thursday.

I have that Friday off as well.

**Yang**

why

blake lastname,

are you insinuating something? ;)

**Blake**

No, jackass.

I get hungover easily.

And it’s Belladonna.

Y **ang**

xiao long

pleased to meet you again

**Blake**

Do you live near Vale by any chance?

**Yang**

yes! mine and ruby’s apartment is just outside of the university district

**Blake**

Wait, really???

I live in Vale.

**Yang**

whoa rad

small world

**Blake**

That’s actually really helpful.

There’s a new sushi bar right next to the park in downtown.

**Yang**

if there’s alcohol i’m down to clown anywhere

**Blake**

Wow.

I hate that.

You know what, I’ve changed my mind.

**Yang**

it’s okay

you can admit that i’m charming, blake

i won’t tell anyone

**Blake**

Whatever.

 

Fingers shaking, ears flat on her head, Blake types.

 

**Blake**

How does 6:30 at Sashimi’s sound?

**Yang**

it sounds like a date

 

Cheeks hot, presses her phone to her face, hiding her smile from herself.

The sweat on her palms was foolish. She knew Yang would say yes.

She  _knew_ she would.

And so, Blake gets around to opening Yang’s snapchat once she touches her cheeks with the back of her hand, feels that they’ve cooled down, knowing the warmer they glow the stupider the things she says.

Swiping it open, they immediately flare up again.

It’s a mirror pic of Yang in what must be her bathroom. There are two dog-shaped toothbrushes and the type of toothpaste Blake doesn’t care for on the counter, a towel thrown messily on the rack behind her.

The tight, tight black shirt Yang has on has ridden up over the hips, and with the barest sliver of skin exposed, Blake sees _abs_.

Like,  _abs_ abs.

Yang has one arm flexing, hair pulled back into a ponytail, flashing Blake the goofiest of faces that really shouldn’t tug at her chest that way.

And yet.

“Oh,” Blake groans, drags her hand over her mouth. “ _God damnit_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, actually following through with the second chapter: [vine guy voice] mrow
> 
> o, yeah! i forgot to mention in the last chap that the title for the fic comes from make up your mind by moon taxi and the chapter title was from ottoman by vampire weekend
> 
> this chapter title was from horchata by vampire weekend lmao im sensing a theme


	3. i'll give away myself (i'll give it to you)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shock of blonde hair is all she sees—it’s everywhere, wild, untamed, curls falling over square shoulders held down by sleek, brown leather.
> 
> And her eyes—they’re lilac.
> 
> And all that happens is that her heart stops, lungs captive over her, and the world falls back on its feet.
> 
> And all that happens is Blake recognizes this feeling far too soon for what it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***IMPORTANT**: im inputting a trigger warning just in case, i didn’t go into detail but it’s at the beginning and if you guys need to skip it for your own sake, you can start after the first/second paragraph break with minimal to no disruption in the plot of the story. i want blake’s abuse to be acknowledged but im trying to write in such a way that, if necessary, the points of the story that reference adam can be skipped without losing too much. i want this project to be mutually beneficial. i want you to guys to enjoy reading without feeling like i’ve sprung anything on you
> 
> thank you for all of your support, this past month has been super rough for me but just the outpouring of love and encouragement from this fandom has like :’) really inspired me. i love each and every one of you from the bottom of my heart
> 
> enjoy !

Red, red hair. Gnarled horns twisted atop his head, stark and proud against the blood flecked over his skin. Dark, overt, charming. Danger signs in the crook of his smile, smoldering the world around him to ash.

Magnetic in the way he says her name, softer than any other word that tumbles from his mouth, touch softer than silk over her hips. Bruises were for fun, possessive without the intent for spite. Love was omnipresent, in every nook and cranny of their home together. Blake had thought she’d seen forever in the blue of his eyes.

It ends and begins in the same stroke, the same strike, against him, against her.

The sight in his left eye is damaged, the scar cutting down through his cheek. Attacked outside of a bar. The officers, both human, don’t believe a word.

Their home becomes cold; months pass, and Blake almost forgets what it’s like to feel warm.

He touches her once. It’s soft and welcoming and Blake falls, falls into the love he’s willing to give, able. Falls onto the mattress with him. Accepts the way he touches her, bruises peppering her skin in ways that have never been before. She says nothing.

Bruises beneath clothes become visible, and everyone notices. The first time, it stings, it surprises them both. And then there’s a second, third, fourth. Blake stops counting after five.

Her parent’s worries fall on deaf ears. Her friends try, but she’s too frightened to move. She runs out of concealer trying to hide.

Withering away to nothing. Eating only when her vision spots, allowing herself to waste. It’s Weiss that breaks her free, offers out a hand and Blake realizes that it’s been months that she’s been offered love rather than chasing for it in places it no longer exists.

Screaming until her throat is raw, bleeding. Screaming, seeing his fist swift to connect with her cheek. Screaming until someone shakes her awake—

It’s Sun, now, his hands on her shoulders, holding her down against the mattress. She fights against him, against his strength, and he puts enough pressure to keep her in place, but Blake knows with the right push, she can break free.

She can break free.

Sun curls into bed beside her and Blake cries until her lungs fill with ash.

 

-

 

(She wakes to the smell of maple syrup and Weiss’s gentle huffing coming from her kitchen.

She shuffles into the kitchen, drowning in one of Sun’s hoodies, tattered and patched with odd colors. Her eyes feel swollen, nose itchy.

Arguing over a hot stove is Weiss demanding Sun to find a way to put pineapple in the pancakes—Blake’s favorite—but Sun is insisting on chocolate chips.

It’s too much, too much love being put into a junky breakfast with freshly squeezed orange juice, and when Weiss sees her standing under the archway, Blake folds into her arms, Sun resting his hand between her shoulders.

And home begins to feel like love again).

 

-

 

She can’t remember the last time she planned this far ahead to be ready for something.

(It may have been her senior prom).

The Sunday before is an all-day affair—she drags Sun to boutiques, to the mall to no avail, and now through her entire closet. Outfit after outfit is tossed onto her bed; Sun distracts himself by twirling loose socks around his finger until they fell off.

“Take a breath, dude,” Sun leans back into her pillows. “It’s just a date.”

“Not a date,” Blake hastily scoots hangers further along the rack. “Just meeting a friend for drinks.”

“Whatever you want to call it,” Sun mumbles, grabs an empty hanger with his tail and hands it to Blake without looking. “You’re going overboard.”

“I am not,” Blake huffs. Stomping in place feels good, feels right, not at all childish.

(Their downstairs neighbor bangs on their ceiling with a broom).

“You said that Yang’s seen you on laundry day,” Sun points out, leaning forward, elbows on his thighs. “If she can get past that, you could show up in a paper bag and she wouldn’t blink an eye.”

Blake _frowns_. “You’re such an ass.”

“Look,” he sighs. His hands are in the air, a sign of surrender. “I think that you’re putting too much pressure on yourself. You still have five _days_ before you meet Yang for drinks. Don’t you think you’re planning a little too early?”

“There’s no such thing as planning too early ahead.” She stops shuffling through her closet, eyes wide. “Oh my God, I sound like Weiss.”

A snort from her bed. “I think you need to relax. And plus,” his grin is sharp, determined; Blake isn’t sure how to feel about it. “I already know exactly what you’re going to wear.”

Creasing her brows, Blake turns to him, watches as he stands and moves into her closet, reaching towards the very back end.

What he pulls out makes her stomach drop.

It used to be her favorite dress, a black fit-and-flare with a white laced collar, three-quarter sleeves. It had been her go-to for almost anything—business meetings, meeting her friends for drinks at a slightly less dingy bar, dates with—

Her stomach coils.

“I…” she flounders, suddenly lightheaded. She sits down on her bed and grips the edges of the mattress. “I can’t.”

Sun tilts his head, lowers the dress a bit.

“The last time I wore that dress was…” She looks off to the side, moving her hand to squeeze at her upper arm, digging her nails into skin. “Was for mine and Adam’s anniversary dinner.”

His face goes solemn. Blake can see the way he flexes his chest, anger flaring under his breast. His mouth contorts, not quite a scowl but close to it, adjusting his hold on the hanger.

“Well,” his jaw shifts, thinking. “Then, liberate it!”

Blake blinks. “What?”

“Take it back!” His smile is back full-force. Blake can feel her own mouth turning up. “You know, like. Free the nipple!”

And she snorts. “They are so not the same.”

“Big deal.” He plops down beside her on the mattress, lays the dress down in her lap. “You _loved_ this dress, and you look damn good in it.” He sets his hand on her shoulder; Blake reaches up to cover it with her own. “So, liberate it. Don’t let him take that from you. Besides,” when he squeezes her shoulder there’s a finality to it. “Maybe Yang can give it a new meaning.”

Smothering the smile that creeps its way onto her mouth, Blake bites down on the taste of healing wounds.

 

-

 

**_sunnylildragon took a screenshot!_ **

**_Gambol-shroud is typing…_ **

Why on earth did you screenshot that?

Delete it.

**sunnylildragon**

it’s funny

also, no :-)

**Gambol-shroud**

I don’t have any make-up on and I’m breaking out!

It’s ugly!

**sunnylildragon**

that’s exactly why i screenshotted it

blackmail

**Gambol-shroud**

…for what?

**sunnylildragon**

maybe you work for the mob or something

i don’t know your real life

the fbi could come knocking on my door any minute

**Gambol-shroud**

I work for a nonprofit, you moron.

**sunnylildragon**

sure

that’s what they all say

**Gambol-shroud**

How many people do you know that are in the mob?

My guess is none.

**sunnylildragon**

see, that’s something only a mobster would say

why would i tell you that? so you can hire a hitman and take them out?

do you think i’m some sort of snitch?

**Gambol-shroud**

Yang

Delete the picture.

**sunnylildragon**

make me

**Gambol-shroud**

I’ll block you.

**sunnylildragon**

no you won’t

you’re too in love with me

**Gambol-shroud**

You’re so full of yourself.

**sunnylildragon**

you like it, don’t you? ;)

**Gambol-shroud**

You don’t get to be privy to that information if I block you.

Delete it.

**sunnylildragon**

it’s my wallpaper now

 

-

 

Wednesday is spent on the balcony, the beginning of a winter’s chill creeping through alleyways and fire escapes, rounds penthouse corners and kicks up leaves once settled against the ground.

She’s buried herself deep into a parka, dreaming of the sand between her toes, the sun beating down between her shoulders, the water lapping at her heels laced with broken kelp. The stars were always high and bright in Menagerie’s sky—they were hidden in Vale, dotting the sky in the distance. She wants to reach out, gather them between her hands and fold them into dust so that they can be closer so that she can feel the universe bend to her will for once.

The leaves on her basil plant have begun to wither, frost no doubt having clung to the tendrils with morning dew. A spider winds its web between the banister. A dog barks from the building next door. The steam from manholes hiss from streets away, but Blake can hear them as if she was standing above them herself.

Nights where she can step outside and steal moments to listen are few and far between. Most days she’s swept into scrounging together a meal with whatever random scraps she and Sun can find in their kitchen despite the grocery list tacked to their fridge running a mile long. She’ll edit correspondences over lukewarm bowls of ramen that she wasn’t able to finish at work. If she’s lucky, there will be five minutes of peace where she can lurk through social media before she needs to tuck herself to sleep, the morning calling too early for her attention.

This time, Sun had ordered dinner from their favorite place down the street and left Blake to her thoughts as he lounged in the living room. Her empty container of Pad Thai sits at her feet, a glass of wine growing cold in the wind.

Mind unoccupied, Blake sinks into the back of her chair, her hair curled over one shoulder. She slips her eyes closed and listens, hears more and more of the city as she reaches out.

There’s a small part of her, maybe not as small as she would like, that was searching for something she couldn’t recognize, couldn’t recognize but knew would be familiar. All she finds are strangers that meld together like the mundane.

If she kept listening, reaching, Blake hopes to find her amongst the city sounds that poise to deafen her.

 

-

 

She Facetimes her mom when she gets home from work to do her make-up, having left early without so much of a blink of the eye from her father.

“You should use some blush,” her mother says, her voice choppy from moving around too much.

“Mom stop moving around, I can barely hear you. Also,” Blake's mouth is shrewd. “Ew, no.”

Kali rolls her eyes; it’s grainy, but Blake can still see it. “You need some color. You don’t go outside enough.”

Sighing, Blake drops her head to her chest, her mascara no doubt smudged. “You are not making me feel better.”

“I’m just concerned for your Vitamin D levels, is all. Besides,” she follows with a smile so loving Blake nearly melts on the spot. “You always look beautiful, kitty-cat.”

Color blooms into her cheeks naturally. “I’m not seven anymore, mom.”

“You will always be seven to me,” comes her mom’s voice, defiant. Blake doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of laughing. A beat passes before her mother speaks again. “I’m proud of you, Blake.”

Blake’s popping her lips, lifting the tissues from between them. She pauses, the tissue still in her hands. “What do you mean?”

“You’re making new friends,” her mother smiles; Blake can hear it in her words. “You’re going out. You’re healing. I know that it hasn’t been easy for you recently, but you’re trying.” Her words are almost watery—Blake can feel the heat behind her eyes as well. “It takes a lot of strength to do what you’re doing.”

She takes that same tissue and holds it under her eye; the last thing she needs is to start all over. Her voice shakes when she says, “It’s just dinner with a friend.”

All she receives is a smile. “Good luck, honey. I love you.”

A tear rolls down Blake’s cheeks, tinted with mascara.

“I love you, mom.”

 

-

 

The subway was too unreliable, but she wasn’t entirely keen on spending money on an Uber. Blake wanted to be early, had even called ahead to the restaurant to assure them she was on the way. The maître d’ sounded bored with her frantic rambling, quick to hang up after she confirmed the time. She supposes it was busy, which only kicked her nerves up by ten.

_Would Yang be able to find her? Would Yang have trouble finding the place? Would she be late?_

And worse,

_Would she even show up?_

Blake blocks the thought as quick as it comes. Yang is different. At this point, Blake knows entirely too much about her, and they finally exchanged phone numbers and there’s no way Yang _wouldn’t_ realize the amount of hell she’d get if she actually stood Blake up.

And to speak of the devil, her phone buzzes in her hand as she steps out onto the sidewalk in front of her apartment, busy with the Uber app chugging to life.

 

**Yang Xiao Long**

do you want me to pick you up on my way to the restaurant? i’m heading out soon, by the way!

 

The thundering in her chest slows for a beat. How stupid she feels now.

 

**Me**

You live on the opposite side of the city.

That’s a nice offer, really. But I’ll Uber.

**Yang Xiao Long**

suit yourself then, loser

i’m excited to see you

 

Despite herself, Blake fidgets, allows the smile and accompanying pink to bloom high in her cheeks.

 

**Me**

I’m excited to see you, too.

 

-

 

The restaurant is _stupid_ packed. Almost too much.

Blake swallows the panic building in her chest, instead busies herself with her already-straight collar, folds and unfolds her jacket draped over her arm.

There’s a man standing near the door looking disgustingly bored, his hair slick and shaved down the sides. He glances up when Blake approaches and rights himself, but his otherwise placid expression remains.

“Can I help you?” Even his voice is flat.

“Um, yeah. I have a reservation? For sixty-thirty.”

He flips open a small book, skimming down the page. “Name?”

“Belladonna.”

He nods and flips it closed, his eyes darting to her ears. “The other half of your party has already arrived. Follow me.”

Oh, _fuck_.

Blake can feel her heart pulsing down into her fingers, palms covered in an instant sheen of sweat. There are too many bodies around, the music too loud, the air balmy. Her ears have flattened, trying to block as much noise as possible. Her eyes skip over every table; the walk feels endless.

Maybe she hadn’t been ready for this. Feeling this amount of anxiety about meeting a friend for dinner couldn’t be healthy. For all Blake knew, she was in the midst of having a heart attack—it certainly felt like it.

There had been plenty of pictures—she knows what Yang looks like (with and slightly-without clothes on, which she doesn’t want to admit how she feels about), knows that there will be a streak of almost too blonde hair peeking out from the sea of shadows that fill nearly every inch of space.

The walk goes on and on, never ending. Blake trips in her heels, legs too wobbly for the height of them. The maître d’ pays her little mind, and when he rounds the corner of the bar uncaring whether or not Blake is close by, he gestures out with a sweep of his arm.

“Your table,” he says, but it barely registers. The shock of blonde hair is all she sees—it’s everywhere, wild, untamed, curls falling over square shoulders held down by sleek, brown leather.

And her _eyes_ —they’re _lilac_.

And all that happens is that her heart stops, lungs captive over her, and the world falls back on its feet.

And all that happens is Blake recognizes this feeling far too soon for what it is.

Blake stands, rooted in place. Yang isn’t fairing much better, mouth parted, lips taking a slow curl upwards. The white, loose fit of her blouse is mesmerizing, buttoned too high, Blake thinks. She closes her eyes against that thought.

“Blake,” comes a voice, and it’s—Yang’s words follow her smile, curling high and bright.

Blake’s ears perk, warm when they slowly rest back against her head.

“Hi,” is all she can manage.

There are fissions in the air around them, tiny cracks opening to expose what’s hidden beneath surfaces, beneath profiles and pictures and witty jokes. Blake feels herself pouring out between each crevice, desperate to pull herself back. To be this close to a stranger felt like putting her insecurities on display, felt like painting a target on her back.

But in reality, Yang was not a stranger anymore.

She was Yang.

“You look beautiful,” she says, a drawl to her voice foreign in the way it folds over her lips.

Blake’s tongue is heavy, mouth dry and lined in soft cotton. Swallowing does little in the way of wetting her lips. Her mouth parts and she thinks of Yang’s own, lips painted sinfully dark, plump, creases in a natural curl.

That certainly doesn’t help.

Blake wants to shake her head. “Um,” she grips her sleeves against her palm. “Thank you.”

The stool glides smoothly over the polished floor. Yang jerks forward, one foot balanced on its toes, moving to stand but thinking better of it. Blake pauses at the movement and the room is much too small.

“Here, I—” Yang is quick to her feet, standing behind Blake to help her with her jacket. The tips of her fingers brush the nap of Blake’s neck and she isn’t sure whose gasp it is that she hears. Draping it over the chair, Yang brushes her hands on her thighs, rough, clenches and unclenches her hands.

When she meets Blake’s eyes once again, there’s a skip in an already frantic pulse, two beats then with haste.

Arms reach out and around her and Blake responds in kind, automatic, and it all crashes down around her.

There’s a severity to it that sears her skin where her hand curls around Yang’s neck, blonde dancing along her knuckles. Yang’s grip is under her shoulders, over her lower back, a near possessiveness that Blake allows for, gives herself over to the way Yang holds her in the middle of this crowd, the two of them falling together in waves that ground her in the present; Yang lets go, and her dress will smell like rosewood for the rest of the night.

And that’s where it all leaves her, caught in Yang’s retreat that trails a silent static like a vice around her throat.

 

-

 

The vermouth magnifies the olives to an almost comical size; Blake pushes the garnish around the rim of her glass, desperate to look anywhere but the black fingernails drumming at the other side of the table.

The air around them is nearly oppressive, awkward in each breath Blake takes that forms on nothingness instead of easy conversation. Because it should be—easy. Here, sat in front of her—this should be the easiest interaction Blake’s ever had in her life, and it about as comfortable as gnawing on broken glass.

“So,” Yang drawls, ice rattling in her near-empty old fashioned. “The weather is...” Her nose scrunches; she tosses back the rest of her drink, flags their server for another. “Fair, I guess.”

Blake can’t tear her eyes away from her throat, her own mouth dry. Taking a sip from her martini resolves nothing.

She wraps her lips over an olive—too bitter for her liking (why did she even order a martini, anyway?), chews it as best she can while fighting a grimace.

She swallows. “Yeah,” she says, voice too raw, tight. She clears her throat, shifts in her seat. “It’s... been nice out.”

Blake wants to tear her own hair out.

It’s not as though the woman across from her was a stranger—Yang was far from it, someone who Blake found to be kind, and genuine, and eccentric, and _lively_ ; Yang is someone she hadn’t known she’d been looking, quite nearly dropped into her lap and all Blake could do was eat martini plives.

There’s a sigh from across the table. It’s almost a whisper; from the way one of Blake’s ears twitch, Yang gathers she’s heard.

“This is...” Yang trails off when their server returns, sets another drink down in front of her. She looks up at Blake from her lashes and, oh. Her smile, wicked and crooked and warm, too warm, finally settles on something familiar—Blake sags into the high-top. “This is fucking awkward.”

The laugh that Blake let’s out is unflattering: half a snort, half a choke, dastardly indelicate. She slaps a hand over her mouth like it will stop the noise after its already left her mouth, but Yang’s smile grows, grows until it’s toothy and wide and Blake is suddenly so at ease it’s as though she’s shedding layers, removing a coat to step inside, leaving shoes by the front door, settling onto the couch with music lilting calm that soothes and heals aches. Yang laughs and it’s what breaks the bubble, sends them tumbling into a mess of everything being too much, too high stakes for two people who know the other’s favorite meal, favorite song, favorite color, who know the time of day the other flourishes, the ways in which they keep themselves. Too familiar to be anything but, and Blake welcomes the wave that brings the noise back to their surroundings, back to their now.

“I’m so sorry,” Blake starts, pushing her martini away. Yang notices, waves for the server before Blake gets a chance. When their server reaches them, Yang motions for her to come closer, and of course, Blake hears, waits for her martini to be taken away and for them to be alone before she engages, brow quirked.

“Whiskey sour?”

Yang shrugs, still smiling, but soft, to herself. “You don’t seem like martini type.”

Blake feels her mouth dip before she can really stop it. “I’m definitely not.”

Yang huffs with mirth; it fills in the warmth that’s bright in her cheeks. “Then why’d you order it?”

Blake looks off to the side, pensive. “I think I wanted to impress you?”

Yang tilts her head. “By pretending to like olives?”

“I thought I would look more adult.”

“You  _looked_ constipated.”

Blake squirms, fingers itching to be occupied. Her hand feels too close to Yang’s—she could reach her pinky out and touch her—but she has no intention of pulling away.

“Honestly,” she sighs, slumps back into her seat. “I don’t know why I was pretending in the first place.”

“Neither do I,” Yang says, sips at her drink. “I know that you have _Hello Kitty_ underwear.”

Blake pinches her hand hard enough for Yang to yank it away.

“I can’t believe you,” Blake groans, hand pressed to her forehead. “I have half a mind to call an Uber and leave you here.”

Yang lifts a shoulder, noncommittal, gestures behind Blake with little intent. “The door is right there.”

Blake’s tongue is in her cheek. “I have to pay for my drinks.”

“You could dine and dash.”

“I work for a public figure, Yang.”

“I’m sure dining and dashing is a common practice.”

“Yeah, alongside kicking puppies and throwing garbage on the street.”

Yang wags a finger near her chest, smirks. “I knew you were too good to be true.”

Blake mirrors her smile, curled and teasing. “I live to disappoint.”

And Yang’s responding smile it too bright. “I love a girl who knows how to let me down.”

There—Blake feels it, feels a pressure needing space, needing to burst that settles up against her ribcage like it lives there. Comments like this, small and playful and casual, are what ground her, remind her that there are people willing to appreciate her time, her love, her friendship. There are people who will take what Blake offers and never ask for more, are patient to continue to receive.

Yang is topping that list, as of now.

“It’s just,” Blake shifts her jaw, searches for the right words. “This doesn’t feel right.”

For her part, Yang seems impressively neutral. “What do you mean?”

Blake sighs, says, “Well, it’s like you said. You’ve seen my unmentionables.”

The corner of Yang’s mouth lifts.

“And here we are,” Blake motions with hands, and Yang nods, like she gets it, “Sitting at a table in some weird, uptight bar with expensive cocktails, dressed like we’re ready for a business meeting.”

Yang nods. “I hate blouses.”

“It just doesn’t feel right. It feels like we’re strangers. We’re far from it.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

Blake’s entire face blooms with her smile. “I have something in mind.”

 

-

 

Salt—it’s all she can see, smell, taste. The sea rolls against the algae dusted rocks beneath the dock, creeps up the support beams where seagull nests perch, precariously balanced between old, diagonal wooden shafts. For this late at night, there are a surprising amount of people strolling along the docks, human and Faunus alike. From where she’s sat, mustard sliding from her bun as she sinks her teeth down, a baby toddles down the pathway lined with hydrangea, his tail fluffing out behind him as he spots a lone oriel. A redhaired woman trails behind him, the corners of her mouth lifting fondly as he rushes further along ahead of her.

A quiet hum lulls on the bench beside her, Yang’s eyes trained on the scene before them as well, the flecks of deeper purple silhouetted by the overhead lights. Blake studies the slope of her nose, finds a smattering of freckles on the bridge. When Yang turns, catches her eyes, she smiles—there’s food stuck in her teeth and Blake snorts.

Yang quirks a brow. “What?”

Blake laughs into her hand. “I think you have hotdog in your teeth.”

After a beat, Yang shrugs. “Saving it for later,” she says, nonchalant, taking another bite. Ketchup smears over the corner of her mouth. It reminds her of Sun.

Swallowing, Yang turns her attention back to the boy. “Is it weird that I’m having more fun watching a little boy scare the crap out of the bird while eating a hotdog next to you than I would be trying to impress you over overpriced sushi?”

Blake nudges her shoulder. “Don’t think about it too much. Besides,” Blake sinks her teeth into her hotdog, mustard dropping back into the foil. “You don’t impress me.”

Yang raises her brow like a challenge. “Oh, yeah?” She wipes her thumb over the ketchup on her chin and licks it clean; Blake tries not to trace the movement, tries to look away. Yang leans across the bench, eyes trained on the shifting of Blake’s jaw. “I can do more than one pull-up.”

Cheeks warm, Blake shoves her back against the creaking wood, Yang laughing against the armrest. She rolls her eyes, kicks Yang against her shin. “You’re so stupid.”

“I’m the dumbest engineer on the planet, and that’s a direct quote,” Yang says. “Just in case someone writes an article about me. That’s what you can tell the reporter when they interview you about my genius.”

“Why am I even your friend?” Blake crinkles the foil into an oblong circle and drops it into the empty paper bag between their feet.

“The world works in mysterious ways, Belladonna.” Yang leans back against the bench, tosses her foil into the bag as well. “This is stupid, but…”

Blake props her arm on the back of the bench, turns her body toward Yang. “What?”

Yang pushes her bangs back from her forehead. “I feel like I know so much about you, but I’m just. Having such a hard time talking to you. I don’t know.” She picks at her nails in her lap. “I feel like that doesn’t make any sense.”

Shifting, Blake leans a bit closer. “It does,” she sighs, gripping the skirt of her dress. “I’m… having a bit of trouble, too. It’s like,” she licks her lips, searching for words. “It’s like, hard to believe you’re actually real.”

Yang turns, mimics her position. “How so?”

“I’ve only ever seen you through texts and snapchats. And now it’s,” her cheeks turn pink, looking down at her lap with a smile. “Don’t make fun of me for this, okay?”

Yang motions as though zipping her mouth closed, tossing away a key.

“You’re… nothing like I expected, but you’re everything I expected at the same time.” Blake tugs at the fabric between her fingers. “I know that probably doesn’t make sense, but. Before you were just- you were just someone that I felt like- I never thought that you were real.”

Despite herself, Yang huffs a laugh through her nose. “Like I was catfishing you?”

Blake rubs the back of her neck. “Maybe? But, no, not necessarily. If I’m being honest, I never thought Tinder would actually… work.”

Yang remains silent, waits for Blake to breathe through her nerves, eyes kind, patient.

Blake continues. “There was a time that I was really, really unhappy. I wouldn’t have downloaded the app if my friends hadn’t practically _forced_ _it_ into my hands. They thought that, maybe, meeting new people could help me heal, or, whatever.” She drops her chin into the hand propped against the back of the bench. “The more I talk the more stupid I feel.”

And then there’s a hand, soft and warm, fingers trailing along her forearm. Yang’s touch is featherlike, too light for pressure to follow in its wake but enough that Blake feels her skin ignite, feels a path blaze where her fingers traveled.

“It’s not stupid,” Yang’s hand falls from her arm back into her lap. “Keep going.”

A heat presses against her eyes and she cranes her neck, forces her eyes closed on an exhale. “For a long while, I was struggling with staying connected to myself. I drank a lot, I kept to myself, hid away in my room. So, when they suggested I download this stupid app to meet new people, I could feel my skin crawl.

“I’m… not the best with people, sometimes,” she admits. “I’m trying to be better, and I really didn’t think this would all work out. There were plenty of creeps that tried to pry their way into my life, and I felt ill. People fetishized my ears, made lude comments. I really was ready to just delete it and go back to what I was doing, because, like. I was surviving, you know?” Yang nods, but stays silent, eyes trailing over Blake’s face, mouth solemn. “I wasn’t _living_ , but I was _surviving_.

“I was about to give up, and then I came across this girl,” Blake laughs through the end of her sentence, and Yang brightens in front of her, her fingers coming back to rest against Blakes elbow. “This girl with a big smile who was trespassing and throwing her sister into a pool caught my eye and now I know that her favorite breakfast is blueberry waffles, and that when she was little she broke her arm six different times, how she puked on someone from the side of a rollercoaster and that she has yet to take her Twilight posters down.”

“It’s _poetic cinema_ , Blake, and you can’t make me.”

Her mouth curls over silent laughter, tongue pressed to her teeth. “And now, here she is, sitting in front of me. I know what her voice sounds like, how she laughs. It’s…”

“Surreal,” Yang supplies and Blake nods, reaches up to trace her thumb over Yang’s palm.

“You’re the first real connection I’ve made in a very, very long time.” Blake can’t meet her eyes, knows how hot her skin must feel, how her ears are tucked back against her head, warm at the tips.

“I know how you feel, though,” Yang says, hooks her finger over Blake’s thumb. “I downloaded Tinder because my friends dared me to. They’re…” Yang looks up and off to the side. “Emphatic seems like too nice of a word to describe them.”

Blake squeezes her fingers. “So, you swiped right for me on a whim?”

And then she rolls her eyes. “No, dingus. I swiped right because you smeared cake frosting over your forehead like Simba and I laughed for a solid minute and a half.”

Triumphant, Blake nods to herself. _Told Weiss that it would work_.

“And it got me thinking.” Yang looks out to the ocean, the roll and crash of the waves against the sand, the rocks, blonde hair blowing across her cheeks. “Would it really be so bad if I actually found someone I connected with? Then you stumbled across my screen and it was like finding something that had been missing for a long, long time.”

Her breath sat heavy in her chest, holding the beating pulse trapped behind her ribs. Yang sat too far away, too inviting to be this close and keeping her distance.

“I had a friend. She passed away in an accident about two years ago.” Yang draws her hands back to her lap, but Blake’s are quick to follow.

“Yang,” she says her name and it’s fragile on her tongue. “You don’t have to—”

“She was spiritual,” Yang meets her eyes, melting purple against her pupils. “Not in a religious sort of way, but she always believed in like, higher powers and fate and all that crap. I swear, she probably believed in magic.”

Blake’s lost her voice, drowning in the way Yang’s shoulders sink, her jacket too loose on her shoulders suddenly.

“She always used to say things about destiny. One time, she asked if I believed in it. My immediate response was no.” The ocean crashes against the shore once again. “I’ve had a lot of things happen to me in my life that I thought were too cruel to be a part of my destiny. But recently,” a near grin tugs at her lips. “I’m starting to think that she may have been on to something.”

On its own accord, Blake’s hand finds Yang’s upper arm, rests there, solid and firm weight to ground Yang—maybe to ground them both.

Blake says, “I’m glad to hear that.”

And Yang says, “So am I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mustard? goes on hotdogs? yes? ha ha i am not a clueless vegetarian after all
> 
> this chapter title comes from "case for you" by early eyes, look at me branching out !
> 
> (do i have a spotify playlist for this fic? [eyes emoji])


	4. i think i can fit with your tone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Welcome, Blake Belladonna,” she raises her glass and Blake does the same. The chime gives way to a pleased hum from Blake, Yang eyeing her with a spark Blake easily recognizes for the mischief that lies in the shrewd way she narrows her eyes. “Are you ready to make me dinner?”
> 
> “I’m definitely going to poison you,” Blake says, takes a sip from her glass and Yang pulls down pans from the rack above the stove, claiming the space behind Blake like it belongs to her.
> 
> In a way, both fleeting and final, Blake thinks it might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y’all out here thinking yang knows how to cook i HAVE to laugh, have you seen ruby all she knows is cookies, it’s genetic. i’m singlehandedly fighting tooth and nail to give blake a cooking redemption arc and you can pry it from my cold dead hands
> 
> this was originally one BIG ol' chapter but i decided to split it into two so that I could give you two quicker updates also so like, well u shall see.
> 
> i really hope i don’t come across as ableist in this chapter. i tried to do as much research on prosthetics as i could and implement it into what the rwby universe already established so if you guys have any comments on this please, please let me know !!!

And suddenly, she’s everywhere.

Not like she hadn’t been before, but it was distantly, through phone chimes and pictures, a steady pixelation hiding all of her for Blake find. There were limitations—not necessarily put upon by themselves, but constraints they had to work through, hoops to jump, wondering how long a good morning would go unread (in Blake’s case, not very). Like a two-way mirror, double planes of glass holding each of them behind until they could reach the surface, touch it only to see that there was someone on the other side.

But now—now there’s Blake, falling into step beside her on crosswalks, sharing a cone of churros even though she’s trying to eat healthier (Yang says it’s all empty numbers—eat a stick of fried sugar, be happy); now, there’s Yang waiting on park benches, on bar stools, at hiking trails with her hair pulled taut and high, cowlick dancing with each step she takes, Blake falling behind just to watch; now, they’re there with each other, for each other—Yang has a sleepless night and Blake stays up on the phone with her, watching nature documentaries until one of them falls asleep.

Now, there’s the both of them, weaving in and out like they’ve been doing it forever—like they had always meant to.

As often as they orbit one another, Blake leaves room for growth knowing full well diving headfirst could drown her. Her past is a testament to her restraint; it shapes the careful way she wraps fingers around Yang’s elbow as they walk, shapes the smiles she gives freely, still afraid to give too much. Yang never asks for more, and as November stretches out before them Blake’s trust follows for miles.

Weiss jokes she’s being replaced—but it’s all in good fun. Experiences wind her and Weiss together tighter than knots: the sister Blake never had, the sister Weiss had secretly always wanted. More and more often do they find themselves on either’s couch with a fleece blanketed over their laps, talking through their hands, school children gossiping without the pretense of being caught. Blake tells her about Yang, and it pours from her, words laced in a type of calm that Weiss has never heard her speak with before—about anyone, anything. She files this, holds it until Blake is ready to hear it.

She’s in the grocery store with Sun and Ilia—that hadn’t been planned, but they nearly crashed into each other at a bodega getting coffee, and Ilia needed to run her own errands.

(“Why not join us?” Blake had said, earnest in her smile. Sun shuffled beside her, a grin wide and crooked on his chin, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’ll say later that they got on like a house on fire—Ilia will say that she nearly pushed him into moving traffic).

The pears are full and round and plump. Blake sets them into the cart that Sun keeps piling high with processed fats and sugar.

Their cashier is a scrawny young man, not unreasonably tall but enough that he has a head above her. His freckles are bright on the bridge of his nose, hair burning fire and eyes like waves and Blake brushes her hand on accident when she accepts her change and it takes her until they reach home to realize that she didn’t shake.

The sensation of stillness is what burns through her blood through the night and for the first time in too long, Blake has a restful sleep.

 

\--

 

“Wait,” she pants, nearly tripping over a rock. “Wait.”

A shuddering breath thunders out of Yang’s chest as she pivots on the spot, trying not to smile down at Blake is hunched over herself, hands supporting her on her thighs.

“C’mon, Belladonna,” Yang pops out one earphone and takes a long swig from her water bottle, gulps it down without effort. “You said you could keep up.”

“If you hadn’t insisted on, like,” he sweeps her hand out. “A ninety-degree incline, this would be a different story.”

Yang’s amusement only grows. “This is the beginner’s trail.”

Blake squints up at her, mouth hung open. “I don’t believe you.”

A laugh bubbles up from Yang’s chest, spills out of her mouth like a sonnet.

A smile draws its way to Blake’s mouth, and she can’t help herself—her own laugh follows, breathy, but still just as bright, as eager. The sweat matted her hair to her forehead, the back of her neck, ears pinned to her head as the breeze picks up between the trees. Yang appears to have barely put in any effort as if she does this for a living—Blake’s surprised that she doesn’t.

With autumn cresting the coastlines, the weather was taking a colder turn. She’s lived in Vale since her freshman year of college, but she’d never quite resolved her grudge with the temperature decrease. When her parents announced they were moving to Vale for her father’s work, Blake had felt the separation from Menagerie splinter, feeling her past life fall away. She longed for the sun to kiss her skin, darken her features to gold, pepper freckles along her shoulders as she stretched over the sand, almost too blue water reaching for her toes.

“It’s not much farther.” Yang removes her other headphone, wraps them around her phone and stuffs it all into her pocket. “We can pace ourselves from here. No rush.”

Head drooping between her shoulders, Blake’s sigh sounds more like a groan. “Thank _God_.”

Yang rolls her eyes; she steps forward, claps Blake a bit too harsh on the back, nearly sending her toppling over her own feet.

Blake jerks her head to watch as Yang trots forward along the mountainside. Knowing Yang  _will_  leave her behind, Blake pushes against the earth, stumbling up the trodden path.

When she finally matches their steps, Blake draws in a long, shuddering breath. As they’ve climbed, she had been noting the thinning of the air, the way the breeze cuts a bit too close, the way the cold settles heavy in her chest. The height brings a calming silence; even with her heightened senses, the only sounds Blake can make out are the crunch of fallen twigs and loose dirt she and Yang step over.

Focused, her ear trains to the sound of Yang stuffing her fists into the pockets of her windbreaker, breath shuttering, eyes closing for a beat too long.

“Hey,” she reaches out, touches Yang’s elbows with the tips of her fingers. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” comes Yang’s response, automatic and clipped. Blake lets her gather herself. “I mean, no. I don’t know.”

Blake wills her guard to wither, wills her face to remain open and neutral and calming. “What’s on your mind?”

Yang slows in her gait, almost imperceptible; Blake hears the hesitance in her footsteps. “I’ve got... a lot going on.”

Blake wants to press, wants to know. Tries to contain herself. “With work?”

Yang nods, though Blake can tell that that’s not all. “Yeah. And with Ruby, the dog. My friends, my… family.”

She strains the word like it’s heavy on her tongue, lip curled in the hook of a grimace.

“My life just gets more and more hectic closer to the end of the year, is all.” Yang takes Blake’s hand, wraps it fully over her elbow. Blake lets it stay, holds tight. “I don’t have the most _traditional_ life, so.” Her laugh is dry. “Simplicity had never really been in the picture.”

“You know,” Blake tucks her forefinger over Yang’s knuckles, stepping over a larger rock in tandem as they veer slightly from the path. “If you want to talk to me about things, I’m always willing to listen.”

Yang smiles at her and a warmth returns, kindles low in Blake’s chest as the start of a fire. “You’re sweet.” She squeezes around Blake’s fingers. “But I’m not sure if you really want in on my tragic backstory.

 _I do_ , comes a thought, loud and bright like sirens, throbs against her temples. _I would hear it all if you’d let me_.

The severity of it nearly trips her. It runs below her skin like she could feel it building, feel it pooling into places that Yang could touch, could reach out and take in the meaning as if it were tangible, something to manipulate between her hands. It’s like vengeance, creeping forward with a ferocity to claim what it thinks is rightfully hers.

Blinking, she lets it fall through. “Try me.”

At this, Yang comes to a stop.

She finds Blake stare unyielding with the words to match, a careful parley that rings gold through her irises. A thoughtful sort of hue blooms in swathes of soft lavender as Yang takes her in, takes in the tilt of her mouth, the slack way her brows sit upon her forehead, the pretty curl of them. Blake notices the way they roam over her face, quick flickering between her eyes and down, back up again and there’s a thump, too loud to ignore—too loud that she thinks Yang might have heard it, too.

Blake thinks, _take it_ , and Yang looks away.

“I’d rather you see something that would make you happy, not listen to something that will make you sad.” Yang tugs them forward and finally lets go of her hand. Blake allows it to fall, curls her fingers to her palm to trap the fleeting warmth. “It’s just through here,” she says, pointing between a clearing of trees.

The dry dirt begins a slow growth into green as they draw closer; Blake picks out the splash of current waters, deep crows from a raven nearby. The world opens up past each tree until the thicket has worn away, and all that’s left is a portrait fit for art.

A small waterfall trickles down darkened rocks, sloshes into a pond that consumes with fervor, striders skating along the surface. Deep auburn chrysanthemums unfurl, petals offering refuge to creatures too small to fare the climbing winds. Moss grows along fallen logs, the surrounding trees, enclose around the clearing like a well-kept secret, footprints both human and not sparse in the soil that buries it.

Blake dares a step forward as though her mere presence would scatter the scene like dust. “Yang…” her voice is quieted by what the earth speaks around her. “This is…”

“It’s beautiful,” Yang says, and Blake glances beyond her shoulder, finds lilac curious to her movement. Pink blooms along the bridge of her nose, darkens her cheeks and ears. “One of my favorite places to come when everything gets to be a bit too much. I came across it on a hike a year or so ago. I didn’t really go looking for anything, just wanted a change from what I was used to seeing. Then I stumbled into this place.” Yang smiles like it’s only meant for herself. “Like a happy accident. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Blake says, the heat pooled from her cheeks sprouting into her smile, falling away to watch the water lick down the stream. “I think I’ve discovered one of my own.”

 

\--

 

**Yang Xiao Long**

blake belladonna

today is the day

**Me**

You’re going to have to be a little more specific.

**Yang Xiao Long**

will you

come make dinner

at my house

**Me**

Wait.

Are you asking me over for dinner, or asking to have me come cook for you?

**Yang Xiao Long**

yes

**Me**

Yes?

**Yang Xiao Long**

come over for dinner but only if you’re cooking

**Me**

What kind of set-up is this?

**Yang Xiao Long**

the kind where i want you to come hang out with me and have dinner but then realize neither me nor my sister really know how to cook beyond the microwave and a set of very simple, detailed recipes our friend typed out for us so we don’t set our stove on fire again

**Me**

Sorry, again?

Set your stove on fire? //Again?//

**Yang Xiao Long**

as you can see

i am not to be trusted

**Me**

Are you just not going to elaborate on that?

**Yang Xiao Long**

nope!

**Me**

So, let me get this straight.

You want me to come over to your house and cook your dinner, instead of you cooking for me?

**Yang Xiao Long**

yes exactly :-)

**Me**

You’re something else, you know that?

**Yang Xiao Long**

when should i pick you up?

**Me**

Twenty minutes.

 

\--

 

Her ears flick from the crisp bite in the air, still damp from her quick shower. The world is busy around her, footsteps echoing along the sidewalk in front of her littered in cracks, the few weeds that still sprout between the cement clinging to life as the winter quickly approaches. A couple walks by in deep conversation with another, woven together like roots, embedded in their own space. Blake watches them go, trained on the click of their boots as they round the corner, let’s them fade amongst the noise supplied in abundance from the city-wide ambiance.

She toys with the strap of her purse, fingers tight, picking at the threading. She had agreed in the sweep of thoughts of Yang’s company, a welcome break from the piling stress from work, the clutter of Sun’s belongings strewn thoughtlessly around their home, her own surmounting loneliness lining the edge of her vision. There hadn’t been extensive thought—more than anything did she want Yang in her space, her orbit, tugging forward on the strings Blake allows to be led to her—until she’s sat on the bench outside her building, only to factor in that she’s never breached this line. They were curling together in small ways, their free time occupied by the other, but there has always been a divide in their lives, being that Yang’s home had existed purely through a screen. Obviously, she had to live somewhere, and Blake’s seen that somewhere, imagined all the trinkets Yang and Ruby must have acquired to call the space their own, but it’s been fabricated through pictures and only thus.

Thinking on it, the only objection she has lain in whether she’ll be invited back. This thing with Yang—their friendship built through words typed and unspoken—has as of recent been translated into exploring each other without the safety of phone screens. Blake knows her own habits, has lived with them and tending to them for over two decades, but Yang has had only the briefest of introductions. Sure—she’s seen Blake in compromising situations, seen her in ways that are reflections of how she carries herself in her own home, how she doesn’t slurp her pasta in public, how she sweats when halfway up a rocky incline—but the only two other places Blake has belonged in are her parent’s home and on Weiss’s leather couch.

There’s a feeling, overwhelming and sad, that she can’t shake—that she’ll step foot into Yang’s home and the familiarity will fade, that she’ll become a stranger again.

Homes have had difficult meanings in her life, but Blake is trying her best to redefine them.

When an engine thunders a block over, Blake’s ears perk, her spine straight as the sleek, yellow and orange street cycle glides through traffic like winding rivers through creek beds. There’s a shock of blonde tight in a ponytail from beneath the helmet when it crawls into idle before her, a purple patch sewn onto the bicep of the leather jacket.

Yang’s smile, high and bright and a threat to cracking cheeks, greets her from under shaded eyes.

“Howdy,” she says, and it snaps the twig of interest Blake’s been lost in over the fact that, of course, Yang’s chosen form of transportation is a motorcycle, the curl of her mouth pretty and crooked through the sentiment.

“Howdy?” Blake says, pushes herself to her feet and steps closer, a laugh not quite greeting the rest of her sigh. “What is this, a spaghetti western?”

“I’m going to ignore that because I don’t know what that means,” Yang says, reaching into the pack slung over her shoulder. “You know, usually when someone picks you up, a simple ‘hello’ is usually nice to hear.”

Blake rolls her eyes, drifting into Yang’s air with the breeze. “Hi.”

Yang grins, crooked and toothy. “Hi.”

“I didn’t know you drove motorcycles.”

Yang reaches behind her to pat the leather seat, smooth like it had been upholstered yesterday. “Technically singular motorcycle, but yeah.” She gives the seat a near affectionate pat. “Bumblebee is my second half.”

Blake’s brow quirks. “Bumblebee?”

Yang nods. “That’s her name.”

“Her?”

“You know,” Yang wags a finger, pokes Blake in the chest. “If you’re mean to her, she’ll throw you off.”

Blake’s smile grows with her amusement. “Suddenly she’s a horse?”

There’s a pause; Yang still has her finger on her chest, though it’s softening so that her hand rests flat. “Okay, then. _I’ll_ throw you off.”

Yang spreads her fingers and roots follow, thin as leaves that flow with the rest of her, a steady calm like a gentle current. “How chivalrous,” she says, her voice on the precipice of collapse.

“Haven’t you heard?” Yang hands the extra helmet over; the straps droop down from her arm. “Chivalry is dead.”

Despite this, Yang helps her fasten the clasps under her chin—if her touch lingers, Blake keeps silent, opting to tug on the strap to secure the helmet to her head. Yang takes Blake’s bag and zips it inside the pack slung over her shoulder, offers her hand to lead Blake to the seat behind her. She helps guide her, the foot pegs unsteady under the curl of her boots, knees wobbly. Adjusting, Blake squirms on the leather until she’s sat somewhat comfortably, and Yang pushes up from the sidewalk, takes her heel to the kickstand to bring it up.

Another pause; Blake’s not certain on where she should lay her hands. The only time she’s ridden a motorcycle was as a stationary ride at a carnival in Menagerie when she was very, very young. There, she had handlebars, and the sole the passenger regardless of it being welded to support beams. At first, she curls them over Yang’s shoulders and in front of her, Yang looks back over her shoulder, the quirk of her brow rising quick above the rim of her aviators.

“What?” Blake huffs, her grip tightening.

“You can’t be comfortable.”

“There’s not really a place for that word on a two-wheeled death machine,” she doesn’t mean to sound to snappy; Yang takes it in stride, follows with a chuckle, thighs supporting the bike as she reaches for Blake’s hands with her own.

“Here,” she says, and guides Blake’s hands to her hips, around her waist, settles them low on her stomach. For it to work, Blake has to scoot until she’s flush with the pack on Yang’s back, a barrier not thick enough for Blake to feel just how warm Yang’s skin is. She threads her fingers together and presses them flat; she hugs Yang back against her and Blake feels her laughter tighten her abdomen, Bumblebee roaring to life as Yang presses her boot down on the gear shift.

“Hold on tight,” Yang says, and Blake doesn’t have to be told twice.

 

\--

 

The university district lies in the historic part of the city, buildings that spiral into neoclassical arches and alleyways. They pull into a dated parking garage beside a building that almost looks like a converted firehouse. The front doors chip red paint, the oak standing massive against the splash of old brick. There are two similar doors further down the brick siding, each belonging to their own homes.

Right inside the front door is a newly-installed staircase that leads up to a second story. There’s not much aside from a few cubby holes on the wall and a coat rack, shoes left haphazard on a mat beside the door. Yang wiggles out of her boots and Blake follows suit, slipping her socked feet onto the hardwood below. Yang tilts her head to the stairs and scrambles up, nearly tumbling over herself. Blake’s ascension is slower, taking in Yang’s earnest with a thoughtful smile.

Breaching the landing, Blake has to pause—in pictures, she’s seen only corners and crevices, but to step foot into Yang’s home is like flipping through the pages of a magazine; Blake’s made a house like this on The Sims once.

Its age is ever present, the faded brick painted over in white that cracks from years since application, but the harsh lines of stainless steel pull her eyes towards the kitchen. It’s an open concept, no formal dining room to be seen despite a table tucked against the back wall, four chairs holding it in place.

Blake takes it all in stride; the living room borders the stairway, a soft grey tweed loveseat with a proper couch to match. There are small pops of color, red and yellow and purple that don’t match anything—there’s nothing tying the colors to the rest of the space, industrial to the finished trimmings, but they’re a statement, loud in presence like the girl who led her here; her sister couldn’t have fallen far from the tree, red dotting in the small collection of trinkets on the coffee table surrounding a small cactus, a bee painted lovingly on the pot.

“Not what you expected?” Yang’s voice drifts from the opposite side of the room. Blake looks over her shoulder, Yang having shed her coat to reveal a soft brown sweater, knitted with a type of attentiveness Blake remembers seeing grandmas give to quilts when fall began to tumble into snow.

Blake winces, returns to surveying what lies ahead of her. There are several plants placed about in a nonstrategic manner, not necessarily as an afterthought but a hastily made decision on the way out of the florists, a television stand flush with the back wall, gaming consoles tucked behind glass. There’s a dog bed just leaving the confines of the living room; she tries not to wrinkle her nose. “Is it bad if I say no?”

There’s a peal of quiet laughter coming from her friend as she moves into the kitchen, rests against the counter. “I figured you would,” Yang reaches into a colander full of grapes she had left before rushing over to pick up Blake; she plucks one off the stem, pops it into her mouth. “I used to live in a shoebox before Ruby started school. When we finally saved up to move into this place, I had just started my apprenticeship. It’s still a shithole,” Yang points up to the ceiling, brown in spots from years of rainwater dripping through the concrete. “But it’s our shithole.”

“If this is what you consider a shithole,” Blake wanders aimlessly toward the island where Yang is now propped against, folding her cardigan tighter across her chest. “I don’t even want to know what you consider to be extravagant.”

“Gold toilets,” Yang quips, not missing a beat. “Duh.”

Blake barks out a laugh, ugly and unflattering and her hand isn’t quick enough to cover it. Yang laughs in sync with a tide, a lilt that rolls from her tongue Blake finds easy enough to mimic. Two wine glasses are set down in front of her and Yang works to open a bottle of pinot grigio, motions for Blake to join her behind the counter.

“Welcome, Blake Belladonna,” she raises her glass and Blake does the same. The chime gives way to a pleased hum from Blake, Yang eyeing her with a spark Blake easily recognizes for the mischief that lies in the shrewd way she narrows her eyes. “Are you ready to make me dinner?”

“I’m definitely going to poison you,” Blake says, takes a sip from her glass and Yang pulls down pans from the rack above the stove, claiming the space behind Blake like it belongs to her.

In a way, both fleeting and final, Blake thinks it might.

 

\--

 

“Are you sure you should use that much basil?”

“I can see the scorch marks on the underside of your cabinets.”

“…Very well.”

 

\--

 

The sun has long since set, clinging to the cityscape as a last chance to be seen, drifting through the partially drawn curtains. The two of them are sat on the suede loveseat, two bowls nearly licked clean on the coffee table bordering the crumbs of what was a baguette. There’s music playing from the kitchen, something soft with velvet beats that Blake can feel in the tips of her fingers as she drags them over the threading of the cushions. Her feet are tucked beneath her, curled into one end of the couch while Yang spreads over the other, consuming the space that falls between them, legs kicked out wide and hooked under the coffee table, dangerously close to lifting it from the floor. Her shoulders are flush with the back of the couch, one arm spread with her glass of wine caught in swirling motions, the other waving between the two of them like without the movement Blake would lose her meaning.

“I mean, seriously. He had the audacity to tell me— _me!_ ” Yang brings her free hand back to her chest with a swift _thud_. “That _my_ designs were pointless and not useful.” Her scoff rips free from her throat with enough gusto that Blake feels it reverberate in her own. Taking a sip from her glass, Yang swallows harsh, leans into the cushion between them. “Says the loser designing _rocket-powered boots_.”

Blake nods along, takes a sip from her own glass. “You’d think that someone that’s in the business of designing prosthetics would realize the hypocrisy of what he’s saying.”

“Honestly,” Yang says, slumps back against the couch. “A part of me wants to break his legs.”

Blake shouldn’t laugh—it trips past her tongue before she can stop it. “Isn’t that a little harsh?”

“It’s the least that little weasel deserves.”

Blake hides her smile over the rim of her glass. “You were saying about your project...?”

A shift between them, tangible and grasping as Yang’s whole body falls into it, a prideful quirk in her lips as she pulls herself upright, crosses her legs under her as she turns fully to face Blake. There’s an excitement mirrored between them, Blake eager to listen and Yang practically pouring out from herself.

“Right! So—” she sets her glass down on the table—probably for the best, Blake thinks, watching Yang’s hands run a mile a minute, faster than she can actually speak—“We’ve made strides with prosthetic technology over the past few decades. And I mean, like, _strides_. There are displays in my building about what the earliest models of prosthetics looked like. There were _hooks_ , Blake.”

She can’t keep her amusement from seeping through her words. “Hooks, huh?”

Yang nods emphatically, steepling her fingers on the cushion. “ _Hooks_. We went from hooks to what closely resembles the lost limbs, but they were stiff and caused irritation.” She wiggles on the couch like she can’t contain her excitement like it needs to be externalized. “You know, my mentor, the man I’m studying underneath? He was a part of the world-renowned research team that gave us the updated prosthetic technology that we use today.”

“Really?”

Yang nods. “He’s a military type—General Ironwood.”

Blake’s brow knots. “I’ve heard that name before. He’s from Atlas, right?

“Yeah,” Yang says. “He’s got a stoic way about him, but he’s compassionate, and his technology works. I’m not supposed to really tell anyone this, but.” She leans in close, hand covering her mouth like there was someone else in the room, and Blake indulges, tilts her head towards Yang’s anxious mouth. “He actually has a prosthetic arm.”

Blake jolts back—her own enthusiasm on par with Yang’s, “ _What?_ ”

“I know!” Yang bounces, grabs onto Blake’s knee. “I’ve only seen it once, but it’s like, metallic and blue and it functions just like a normal arm would.” Her lips take a sudden turn, a pout hooked on the end of a frown. “He keeps it covered almost all of the time, though. I don’t think he really likes the way it looks. It serves its purpose, though, which I totally understand.” And she takes more of Blake’s cushion as she swings forward, close enough that Blake can see the smatter of freckles across her nose catch between the wrinkle of her nose. “Which is where my project comes in.”

Blake’s resounding grin is wide, toothy. “Lay it on me.”

“We already have made incredible strides in where technology can be implemented into prosthetic technology, yeah? Like, we’ve been successful at connecting nerve endings and allowing them to function as one with the body. But I don’t know if you’ve seen any reports or pictures about this stuff,” she contorts her mouth, tries not to grimace. “They aren’t the most aesthetically pleasing. And despite the fact that recipients are grateful for the prosthetics, they can obviously recognize that this is just technology to improve the quality of life. A lot of times I read over reports that our patients aren’t able to connect with the new parts of their body.

“I’ve been in touch with a few of the big-wigs from my university—” hand pressed to her chest, “—not to brag, or anything.”

Blake smiles. “Of course not.”

“We’ve come up with a few designs for a machine that will be able to create a synthetic epidermis based on the skin pigmentation of the patient that we’ll use to enhance the aesthetics.”

Blake’s eyebrows nearly shoot into her hairline. “You’re making skin?”

Yang lifts her shoulders one at a time, rocking between them. “Sort of. It’s not, like, a skin graft or anything, but basically, we’d be taking high-resolution images of the patient and attempt to, like, three-D print something that looks and feels like skin. But I’m having trouble with finite details, like, um,” Yang motions to Blake’s lap. “Let me see your hand?”

She reaches over and Blake rests her fingers against Yang’s palm. Yang turns her hand over, traces along the creases. A burn follows her careful fingers, entranced with the movement.

“The palm is where I’m having the most trouble right now. I want there to be a complete connection with the prosthetic and recipient, which means designing creases and heart lines and the like so that there’s individuality. And it’s,” she collapses against the couch, shoulder sinking into the cushion, cheek pressed and muffling her words. “So. Stressful.”

A silence draws from her words; Blake’s mouth hangs open, losing a grasp on speech. Her hand remains tucked against Yang’s, curling over her fingers.

“Holy shit,” she manages, strangled. “Yang.”

Yang perks up from where she’s squishing herself against the sofa.

“That’s… incredible.”

Pink pools in her cheeks, spreading over her nose and tracing under over her ears. “It’s nothing.” She plays at the web of skin between Blake’s thumb and forefinger.

“It’s not _nothing_ ,” the cushion separating them seems to be closing in, their knees nearly stacked on top of one another. “This is _amazing_.”

Yang rubs the back of her neck; her shoulder slackens, and she presses into Blake’s hand until both their hands are flat against the other, fingers pointed up, up.

“You’re changing lives,” Blake presses back with just as much pressure, lining up the bottom of their palms. “Just sitting here listening to you talk about it is inspiring. I’m, like.” Her exhale tremors. “Wow.”

The heat from Yang’s palm pumps beneath her skin, darkens her cheeks to the point where her only response is a bashful laugh, not meeting Blake’s eyes.

Yang wiggles her fingers against her own; Blake finds callouses over her prints, nicks and scars on her thumb and farther along her palm. Her fingers are from delicate—rather, her palms are square, deliberate in where they touch her, the other still on her knee. They look strong, the pressure a testament to the part. There are two freckles under her first two knuckles on her right hand, dark and proud like they’ve lived a lifetime.

There’s a simmer of laughter that Blake catches through her haze, lost in her travel.

“What?” she says, and it’s too soft falling from her lips, too tender. The wine still weighs on her tongue—she faults it for the warmth.

“Your hands,” Yang presses the heel of her palm in, rocks against her. “They’re so small.”

Blake scoffs, “No they aren’t.”

“Look,” Yang says, flexing, curling the tops of her fingers over Blake’s. “I’ve got like, a knuckle and a half on you.”

“My hands are a _normal size_ , thank you very much,” she pouts. She tries scratching at Yang’s fingers with her nails, but Yang goes unfazed.

“Tiny,” Yang says, like that it’s all that matters.

“Says you, gorilla hands,” she quips and Yang doubles in laughter, growing and growing as she intertwines their hands, shaking Blake’s arm. A phone chimes from the coffee table; Blake recognizes the sound, ears pressing flat on her head.

She keeps her hand in Yang’s, foolishly, the thrum of her pulse spreading down to her fingertips as she scoops the device into an unsteady hand. Yang peers over, curious, and her mouth sets in a line.

**_You have a new match!_ **

“ _Fuck_ ,” Blake whispers, closing her eyes against another chime.

**_Coal sent you a new message._ **

“Who’s Coal?” Yang asks. Her grip slackens on Blake’s hand until it falls back into her lap. She draws her other hand back, tugs on the skin of her own palm.

“I don’t—” Blake lips her lips. “I don’t know. I forgot about it entirely.”

Yang hums, reaches for her glass and takes a long, slow sip. “I think I deleted the app, like, a week ago.”

“Yang,” her voice clings on desperation, the space between them growing and it’s wrong, pressing down in a manner that cracks at her lungs, her ribs.

Yang’s brow quirks but it’s lost the curve of familiarity. “What?”

“I’m—”

The door flings open from the bottom of the staircase. A bark rises from an echo and claws scramble up the stairs. Blake’s ears flick up, flatten down to the sides of her head when she meets eyes with a small, black and white corgi, its head tilted, tongue lolling from its mouth.

“Shit, Zwei—!”

“Yang!” comes a girlish shrill from down the stairs. Footsteps thunder closer and stop abrupt at the top of the railing.

A girl, small and lanky in comparison to the woman across from her, leans her weight into the hands pressed against her thighs, chest heaving. A short, black bob frames her jaw, tips fading into a deep auburn. A red sweatshirt hands two sizes too big from her shoulders.

“ _Zwei got loose after I left Penny’s and I just had to chase him for five blocks and how on earth do you do that every morning for fun I feel like I’m dying—_ oh.” The girl rightens, eyes a daunting silver, flicking between herself and Yang in quick repetition. Her chest heaves with a breath trapped in her throat. “I didn’t know you were having company.”

“It was a last-minute decision,” Yang says, quick to hop to her feet. She gathers the plates from the coffee table and moves to the kitchen, moving much too fast. Dumping them in the sink, she rounds the corner of the island and rests her hip against it, runs a hand down her face. “I thought you were staying over at Penny’s?”

“Plans changed,” the girl mumbles, directed more towards Blake than Yang, and Blake blinks in slow recognition. “Wait, _Blake?_ ”

There’s a lull in the time it takes her to respond. “…Ruby?”

“Oh!” Ruby hops in place and races around the couch and Blake is engulfed, a blur of red wrapping arms tight around her neck. “I was starting to think you weren’t real!”

“Um,” Blake’s caught between a laugh and shoving her away; she settles for a pat on the shoulder.

“Ruby,” Yang sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Get off of her.”

The corgi—Zwei (Blake tries not to wrinkle her nose)—barks amid the back-and-forth, weaving in between Yang’s legs until she scoops him up. He licks under her jaw and she holds him far away, frowning.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you!” Ruby’s grin is wide, brighter than she thinks is humanly possible. Ruby takes to shaking her hand, nearly tugging Blake’s arm from her socket. “Yang never shuts up about you and I, like, I didn’t doubt her but I did, also.” Ruby lets go and plops down beside her on the couch, scooping up the rest of the baguette and tearing off a piece, stuffing it into her mouth.

Swallowing, Ruby continues in rapid pace. “You’re so _pretty_. Prettier than Yang said—”

 _“Okay!"_  Yang sets Zwei down, stomps over to the couch and yanks Ruby’s hood up and over her face, smothering her back onto the cushions. Her legs flail and Blake wonders if all siblings are like this. The closest she’s come is watching the terse way Weiss and Winter dance around bruise affection; come to think of it, she’s never seen them hug. “That’s enough.”

There’s muffled chatter coming from under the red hood. When Yang finally lets up, Ruby shoots up taking dramatic gulps of air. She opens her mouth to finally address Ruby, her eagerness managing to tug at the corners of her lips when her phone chimes again.

**_Coal sent you a new message._ **

Yang’s eyes snap to the phone in Blake’s hand. “You can interrogate her another time, Rubes,” she says. “We’re just finishing up.”

“Oh,” Blake murmurs, but it’s nearly lost under Ruby’s bubbling speech.

“Come to the park with us this weekend!” Ruby reaches out, grabs Blake’s knee. She only glances down, a flick of her eyes and then back to silver. “We always go Saturday mornings. There’s this lady right outside the park that makes the _best_ cinnamon buns and she always gives us extra.”

Blake turns to find Yang’s eyes, purple still lilting over dark pupils. They’re not hesitant, but recognized the guarding haze that glosses over them, the too tight grip on her forearms.

“Would that be okay with you?” Blake asks, and Yang snaps her eyes back up to her, stumbling forward on a step.

“ _Of course_ , it would,” she answers too quickly, too loudly. Ruby startles; Zwei yips from where he’s now curled on his bed, chew toy tucked under his paw. She shifts weight between her feet, focus trained on her sock covered toes. “I mean, yeah. For sure.”

Their movements are slow—Ruby rushes about like a reckoning as Blake packs up her things, unsteady on her feet as the wine slackens her limbs. Yang washes dishes idly as Blake checks that she has everything she came with. Another quick hug from Ruby later—Blake puts more effort into this time—and Yang is leading her towards the front door.

Slipping into her boots, she finally meets Yang’s eyes fully, her boots giving her another inch so that Yang doesn’t tower over her. Yang’s mouth quirks before she can stop it, grinding her heel into the doormat.

“I had a lot of fun tonight,” Blake wants to reach for her, take her hand between her own and feel the warmth that emits from all over. She settles on tugging at the string on Yang’s sweatpants she had hastily changed into early. Yang watches her, her mouth making way for a smile to creep back into the corners.

“Me, too.” Yang cocks her hip out as she leans against the wall near the staircase. Blake is drawn along, not wanting the separation to last for much longer. “Thanks for making me dinner.”

Their gravity holds her still, feet firm in where the tile opens to tired grout. It’s a heavy closure, a fissure needed to cut through the palpable tightness that curls over her shoulders, brings her closer, sits heavy in her chest. Her eyes scan over Yang’s face, purposefully avoiding her mouth, her eyes, following the line of her cheekbones and the ridge of her nose.

There’s something missing, and Blake wants to reach out, take it. She can tell that Yang wants it, too, want to take Blake in her hands until she pours out from between her fingers.

“Okay,” Yang says, breaking through. Blake has to steady her breath, reaching blindly for the door behind her. Yang steps with her to see her out, and as the door shuts behind her, Yang watches until Blake has disappeared on the other; the thundering in Blake’s chest belongs not only just to her.

(In the cab ride home, she doesn’t bother opening the messages—she deletes the app with purpose and hopes that it’s enough to quiet the swirl of thoughts that fight against the reasons that she shouldn’t).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :-)
> 
> this chapter title brought to you goodie bag by still woozy and by me, who was a little under the influence when i brewed this up
> 
> i’ve been bullied into leaking the [spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/ofk0xrjotd7b3n6n1wmx6z9ev/playlist/322fLlLg6PUE2uz4jgX8Qt?si=iN6FsFAETu6fUN6S8q628w) playlist


	5. you were the light dancing on the sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tongue in cheek, Blake finds Yang open and honest and wanting just as much. “You really are something else, Xiao Long.”
> 
> Yang’s smile spreads to her eyes, unfurls on delicate lips and carries the weight of lighter musings. “God, I sure hope so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to elaborate: 
> 
> y’all, broke: blake can’t cook
> 
> me, woke: blake bakes her own bread and makes fresh pasta every wednesday, u cowards
> 
> me, woke again: yang willingly drinks orange juice after brushing her teeth, says she doesn’t mind the flavor
> 
> (im just kidding don’t @ me but also @ me because im right)
> 
> thank you guys for all of your positive feedback :’’) it feels so incredible to know that i can make all different kinds of people happy. this fic has been incredibly therapeutic for me and pushes me to work harder, and it’s really lovely to feel everyone’s support :’’) i would die for each of u, name the place

From: **Skunk Wukong**

Hel,lo

Come pick meup

**Me**

You know I don’t have a car.

Uber home, idiot.

**Skunk Wukong**

Neptune has my wall

My wallet

Blale :(

I’m hugny, get me CHows

**Me**

Ugh.

I’ll call you an one, then.

I’m not buying you Chinese, there’s spaghetti in the fridge my mom dropped off.

**Skunk Wukong**

FUCKYEAH!!!!

<<,,,333

Marryme

**Me**

No, you fucking walnut.

 

An hour later, Blake watches from the kitchen as their doorknob twists frantic, a thump nearly taking it from the hinges.

She sighs, setting down her mug. “Hold on, you moron.”

The moment she cracks the door open Sun tumbles to the floor, face landing between her feet.

“You’re my best friend,” He says, mostly muffled by their welcome matt. “You know that?”

Blake groans, leaving him to pick himself up. “Get a grip, Sun.”

He makes a show of pushing himself into a plank only to wobble at the elbows, crashing back onto the ground.

“No, no,” he sighs, rubs his palms open lovingly on their hardwood floor. “I like it down here.” He does manage to pick his head up, though. “What are you doing home?”

Blake busies herself with transferring the spaghetti into a bowl, slides it into the microwave. “It’s one in the morning.”

“I thought you—” a hiccup, slurring his speech. “I thought you had a date?”

“I was with Yang,” her arms cross over her chest, peering at the fog creeping its way up the corners of the window panes. “It wasn’t a date.”

The floor shakes when he finally stumbles his way into the kitchen, plopping down at their sad excuse for a dining table. Blake tosses him a bottle of water from the fridge. It hits him square in the forehead.

He palms his forehead, only darkening the red splotch that starts to form. “You should have _warned_ me!”

“Open your eyes,” she says. The microwave dings, loud enough to muffle Sun’s incessant moaning. She sets both the too hot bowl and the roll of paper towels down in front of him; he scarfs down forkfuls, unphased, the steam rising in poignant waves from the noodles. Blake wrinkles her nose.

His swallow is audible, choking down far too much at once. “So, you didn’t stay over?”

She rolls her eyes. “Obviously not. I’m right here.”

“Oh,” he blinks up at her, bovine and sluggish. He points his fork at her, eyes shrewd. “Good point.”

Pressure builds along the edge of her right temple; her ears shift, pinned back on her head as she breathes deep—too deep, too harsh—through her nose. “Look, I love you, but I can’t deal with you right now.”

Sun studies her for a fleeting moment, too curious for his own good. “Did you break up?”

She finally pinches the bridge of her nose, moving to push herself up from the table. “Sun—"

“It’s been a long time since you looked like that,” he shovels more pasta into his mouth, struggling once more to swallow it down. “Happy. Well, you don’t look happy now,” he wipes his chin on his shirt sleeve—his white shirt sleeve. “You look constipated.”

“Jesus Christ.” Blake finally stands from the table. “Why does everyone keep _saying_ that?”

He studies her, quieter than Blake’s known him to be. Sun’s eyes are earnest, traveling over her face in search of something—she’s not sure what, but she doesn’t exactly feel scrutinized. More like she’s being read aloud, Sun thumbing through her pages to find the right description.

Her teeth grate against a sigh. “I can’t deal with this right now.” She stalks from the kitchen, pushes her bangs from her forehead that’s begun beading with sweat. Sun doesn’t call after her—she’s both grateful and heavy, steps dragging as she crosses the threshold of her bedroom, not exactly slamming the door but close to it. She collapses face-first onto her mattress, pillowcase engulfing her.

The hot press of tears that rim the lids of her eyes surprises her. Something like regret sits on her tongue, forming apologies around excuses she isn’t sure she really even has. There had really been nothing wrong with her keeping the app on her phone—she really had forgotten it was still installed. But the moment Yang’s eyes caught her phone, familiar with the particular chime, there was something undeniably off in the way lilac folded over shrinking pupils, the automatic downturn of her lips.

What had set Blake off the most was the hurt that settled in the laugh lines on Yang’s cheeks as if they hadn’t been stretched wide moments earlier. Like she hadn’t been the reason behind the wrinkling around her eyes, the press of two palms together.

Chancing, Blake lifts her head high enough from her pillow to peer over at her bedside table.

Her phone screen remains dark.

It’s the first time she falls asleep in some amount of time with loneliness beginning to sprout between her ribs.

 

-

 

The conversation around her muffles like white noise, shapes formless crowded around her father’s desk. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer views down to the city streets below—all that passes by are the blurs of cars and buses, nothing concrete.

Something’s muttered close to her face; Blake’s eyes are trained ahead, far off.

The noise repeats itself, louder this time, drawing even closer. The shape grows with the set line of red hair pulled high in a ponytail, scales and freckles becoming more prominent. Her father’s chest rises, hands braced against his chair as if to stand.

“ _Blake_ ,” comes Ilia’s voice, abrasive. Blake blinks as the room crashes into view. Eyes from around the room—her father’s, clients’, Ilia’s—and she feels a creeping blush start its ascent along the column of her throat.

“Hey,” Ilia’s voice takes a softer note. Her hand follows her words, curled over Blake’s shoulder. “Is everything okay?”

“Y—” Her throat cracks in the attempt. “Yes, yes, my apologies.”

Her father’s eyes level with her own, her blush only deepening. He clears his throat, draws the attention of the room back to him.

“Let’s take a brief recess,” he finally stands, the room bending around him. “We should probably reconvene in the conference room so that everyone has a place to sit. Please,” he buttons his suit jacket, gestures past the glass doors of his office. “There’s freshly brewed coffee and fruit in our kitchen. Help yourselves.”

Chatter fills the room as her father’s clients file out of the room, a few glancing back at her. She turns her back to the door, pretends to shuffle the papers in her hands. Once the last of them has finally exited, Blake’s father moves to the door behind them. Ilia’s hand remains on her shoulder.

“Velvet,” he calls out to his secretary. Her long, brown rabbit ears quirk at his voice, swiveling in her chair.

“Sir?” Her voice lilts over her accent; Blake has always found it soothing.

“I’m going to need a few moments alone with my daughter and Ilia,” his demeanor is calm, but Blake knows her father well enough to see the tension knot between his shoulders. “Can you make sure no one disturbs us? At least for a few moments.”

She nods, quick and concise. “Rodger dodger.”

It makes Blake smile, something her father mirrors. The door inches closed behind him.

The amber of his eyes, reflected in Blake’s own, softens beyond recognition. It’s nearly enough for her to crumble.

“Sweetheart,” he takes her hand between both of his own, engulfing it. “Is everything okay?”

The deliberate, forced exertion of her nod more than gives her away; she knows he can see through her, has a feeling is starting to be able to.

“I’ve… got a lot on my mind.”

“The nightmares?” His tone is gentle, but Ilia jerks forward, tries to hide it with a cough. “Are they back?”

Blake’s eyes dart toward Ilia, but all she finds is present comfort, a willingness to listen.

She sighs. “No,” her mouth sets heavy, lips pressing into a thin line. “Something happened with… a friend.”

One of her father’s eyebrows quirks, thick and prominent on his head. “With Weiss?”

Blake shakes her head.

“Your roommate?” Ilia supplies, but Blake repeats the action.

There’s deflation in her father’s shoulders like he has a stake in this as well. “Yang.”

Blake presses her lips tighter, grips the paperwork to her chest, knuckles white like a vice. She turns her head, decisive, strays from the both of them to watch a gull swoop past the window, carried by the breeze.

“Can we just finish the day?” Blake shifts from their hands. They let her go without resistance. “I’ve already caused a scene.”

Neither of them answers. Ilia takes a step back, but her father remains close, hands hovering between them.

She doesn’t give them the chance, either. She slips out of from the glass door and beelines for her desk, trying not to sag into the worn pleather of her chair. Pressure thrums in her pulse, a dull thud against her skull and her phone remains silent inside her pocket, still and free from inquiries.

Eyes from all around the office keep trained on her all day. Blake feels like screaming loud enough to shatter.

 

-

 

Weiss’s chatter often soothed her frenzied thoughts, a gentle lull to pull her from the present. In school, Weiss would pace their dorm, mostly spilling over with idle grievances as she tidied, decluttering her desk and rearranging Blake’s bookshelf. It lived in the background as a constant, drawing her back when her mind crowded. There were days when she looked forward to it—especially nights after she would return from Adam’s, broken and tired and cold—knowing something was always there for her, waiting.

She figured it would bring her some solace in the wake of this… thing with Yang. This thing that broke her concentration, drew bags beneath her eyes, hand near her phone on a hair trigger.

Much to her dismay, it was having the opposite effect.

Truthfully, it wasn’t Weiss’s fault—Blake had asked to lounge in her apartment for that exact reason. She wanted to catch up on the last of her emails at home, but Sun was still at the studio, which left Blake to herself and the silence. She couldn’t handle it.

And now it’s all she wished for.

“ _Weiss_ ,” she snaps. It fumes out of her with intent. Neither one of them expects the tone: Blake feels the clench in her jaw as she bites down; Weiss nearly drops the wooden spoon into the pot.

The tight bun holding the mass of platinum hair threatens to undo in the speed of her pivot, hands already in tight over her hips.

“What’s your problem?” Weiss’s eyes shine like ice.

Blake sighs, licks her lips, falters over excuses. She settles on one, trite and waning. “I’m sorry, I’m just tired.”

“Then why don’t you go home,” Weiss turns back to the pot, lips in a sour pout. “You’re the one who asked to come over.”

Blake drops her head into her hands. “I know.”

“And _I_ know that you’re lying to me.” Weiss stalks over to her spice rack, strides deliberate, hard. “This has _everything_ to do with what happened at Yang’s.”

Blake adjusts her fingers over her keyboard. The cursor blinks back at her in vapid strokes, a word yet to be typed. She allows the reticence to gather, keeps to herself and pretends to be busy. But Weiss is having none of it.

“I’m not letting you burrow back into how you used to be.” Gold catches ice over a laptop screen. “You’re only allowed to be this moody once a month. It’s exhausting.”

 The cursor blinks back at her, unhelpful. It taunts her, grating,

“I don’t see what’s wrong with you having a Tinder, anyway.” Weiss cuts the gas on her stove, waving away the smoke. “You’re not dating her.”

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Blake relents. She eyes the pot cautiously, leans back in her seat. She pulls open up the website for the Thai place down the street in a new tab.

Weiss frowns, peering down through the steam. Her hip juts out to the side, clasps her cheek in her hand. “Okay, I think—”

“Som tum?”

“…and the spring rolls.”

-

The delivery driver tries his best not to wrinkle his nose when Weiss opens the front door and smoke leaks out. She tips him extra; it doesn’t seem to change his mind.

Blake’s poured the both of them a glass of red, sipping at her own from where she’s perched near the arm of the couch. She’s changed into one of her Beacon sweatshirts she stuffed on the shelf of Weiss’s closet, stripped of her pants and lounging in her boy shorts.

Weiss hasn’t forgotten their conversation—she makes Blake keenly aware that she intends to continue. It’s both a blessing and a curse to be able to ready Weiss’s body language like second nature. The intensity of her stare is impossible to ignore, and though Blake tries not to shrink away from it, knowing that she’s the cause of it is only worsening the lead that settles in her gut.

To both their surprise, however, there’s a chime from her phone that leaves Weiss’s mouth half open, caught on the first syllable.

Thinking on it later, she knows that the severity of her reaction was more than telling. But that doesn’t stop Blake from practically leaping forward off the couch to swipe her phone off the coffee table, screen bright. There’s a squirm in her chest that doesn’t quite register as disappointment, but it’s close, however much she tries and fails to place it.

 

**_Crescentpose has added you as a friend!_ **

**_Crescentpose is typing…_ **

Blake!

its me ruby

 

Blake quirks a brow, staring down at her phone.

Weiss follows her gaze. “What is it?”

“I…” Blake purses her lips. “I think Yang’s little sister just snapchatted me.”

 

**Gambol-shroud**

Ruby Rose?

**Crescentpose**

yes! that’s me~

hi!!!!

 

Beside her, Weiss wrinkles her nose.

“What, is she 12?”

“Twenty-two,” she supplies on the automatic.

 

**Gambol-shroud**

Oh! Well.

Hi, Ruby!

**Crescentpose**

hiya!

 

“Are you… friendly? With her sister?” Weiss leans into her space, props herself on the couch behind Blake to read over her shoulder.

“I’ve only met her once.” Her mouth twists, unsure. She reaches for her wine, phone buzzing in her hand.

 

**Crescentpose**

serious question.

**Gambol-shroud**

Serious answer?

**Crescentpose**

are u

still

coming with us to the park tomorrow?

 

Blake blinks down at the screen, fingers above the keypad.

 

**Gambol-shroud**

You still want me to come?

**Crescentpose**

of COURSE I do!!!

why wouldn’t I?

**Gambol-shroud**

Well.

Yang hasn’t spoken to me all week. I figured maybe she’d changed her mind.

 

Weiss curls her hand around her elbow, lowering the phone from her face.

“Blake,” Weiss looks at her sternly. “You know texting is a two-way street.” Looking up, Weiss smooths down a flyaway by her ear; it twitches against her hand. “You could have reached out first.”

Blake meets her eyes, finally, finds them hard, searching. The rest of Weiss’s face betrays her, her lips pulled into a soft smile, brow raised to accommodate her eyes as they flitter back and forth between Blake and her phone screen.

 

**Crescentprose**

pffft

maybe she hasn’t spoken TO you but she hasn’t stopped talking ABOUT you

 

Oh.

“Oh,” She repeats it out loud.

 

**Crescentpose**

if I didn’t live with her it’d be cute

sadly, it’s not

 

She doesn’t know who’s more affected by the sentiment, her or Weiss. Rarely does Weiss outwardly show her excitement and when it happens, it’s in the minute way she twists her hands, the slow pull of a smile across her lips, eyes caught glittering like sunshine on a lake.

Much is the case now, with the added effect of her nails clenched tight into the flesh of Blake’s forearm, which is really starting to hurt. She tries to shake her off, but Weiss holds steadfast.

 

**Gambol-shroud**

Then I will definitely be there.

**Crescentpose**

YAY!!!!!!!!!

this is going to be so much fun

**Gambol-shroud**

:^)

Agreed.

 

“I don’t know what’s holding you back,” Weiss glances back to her own phone screen having lit up. Neptune’s name is plain across the screen. A grimace pulls funny at her mouth, setting it face down on the couch cushion.

Blake frowns. “Says you.”

Weiss just rolls her eyes. “You obviously like this girl, and it’s obvious she likes you back.”

Tongue heavy, throat dry, Blake struggles to wet her mouth to speak. “Weiss.”

“I know what he did to you was…” She closes her eyes against the memory, remembers living it alongside her, “I still haven’t fully recovered from seeing it all. And maybe I’m just projecting onto you, but.” She worries on her bottom lip, and Blake’s unsure of the expression on her face, a far cry from her normal assuredness. “I think it’s time you finally let yourself feel again.”

Later that night when she’s finally pried herself from Weiss, steadily ignoring her texts, her phone buzzes again, Ruby’s name lighting up her screen.

 

**Crescentpose**

yang won’t admit it, but I know she’s excited to see you

 

And Blake nosedives.

 

**Gambol-shroud**

I’m excited to see her, too.

 

-

 

Saturday dawns and Blake rises before the sun.

Stretching above her head brings a delicious burn to her back, curling off the mattress to chase the arc. Her room is slowly swathed in sheaths of amber muted by the sheen of her curtains, casting shadows from the trim of lace. The city greets her outside the window, sidewalks dotted with those determined to start before all the noise, before the world catches up to them.

Her mattress frame gives a humbled squeak as she curls herself forward, reaches through her thighs as far as her body will allow, humming with relief.

It’s been a long time since she’s woken this early, at least on her own.

It’s been so long that she doesn’t actually remember. Maybe it was college when she and Weiss studied for finals on the rooftop terrace of their café. Maybe even before that, when she was still growing into herself, waiting outside the long, winding line at Tukson’s for the newest book in a series she held dear. Maybe even before that, or perhaps it hadn’t been that long at all.

What matters most is that she wakes up early for today, for herself, for no reason other than it feels right that she does.

The kimono hangs loose off her shoulders as she pads into the kitchen, flipping on the electric kettle so as not to wake Sun, still snoring down the hall. Her stomach has yet to call for food, but she prepares a bowl of fruit, the last of what’s in season. Honey trickles over the lip of her spoon, melts as she stirs, bobbing her tea bag.

Her mug is warm to the touch; she curls delicate fingers tight against the heat, wants it to seep into her palms, wake her sleepless bones. Her chest welcomes how it spreads across her ribs, strokes broad along her sternum, how it yearns with a simple breach.

The day stretches on endless before her; she has hours before she’s to meet the sisters for their walk, and each moment strikes at Blake’s nerves, though she can’t place whether it’s good or bad.

Weiss, in her roundabout way, had been right. What had Blake had been ignoring came pouring into light, Ruby drawing it to the surface for Weiss to sink into, for Weiss to lay bare for her to pick apart on her own. There were so many instances she allowed herself to excuse—looks of muted longing and hands with guided holds—due to her own uncertainty. She and Yang had stumbled into one another at a time where they both, as far as Blake’s been made aware, had nearly stopped searching. For friendship or something more, Blake hasn’t quite pieced together, but it’s something she wants more than she really understands.

To know someone for such a short while and connect with instantly had to be rare, Blake thinks. The universe seldom gave second chances, and Blake had all the proof she needed to count herself lucky.

She shouldn’t plan too hard for this—no doubt Yang would simply throw on whatever she had that was clean, though she was effortlessly beautiful in everything she did. 

A flutter kicks up like a storm below her breast; she covers it with her hand but doesn’t apply pressure, allows for it to grow into a dawning truth. She knows the feeling, remembers the last time it’s bloomed with roots growing this deep. The boy with bloodied hair and sullen lies to the girl that spun gold with every step she took.

The boy who sought a vendetta; a girl who wished to lend her hands.

Her schoolgirl musings carried into outfits, forcing herself to narrow them down to two. She takes a bit longer in the shower, allows her hair to dry on its own.

She wipes the steam coating her mirror with her hand, toothbrush hanging from her mouth. Scanning her face, Blake smiles at the red in her cheeks, the gleam of gold; toothpaste dribbles down her chin and she yanks her towel to her face, scrubs down hard.

She’s standing in her underwear, ears still damp at the base when she hears Sun’s door creak open, the drag of his socked feet on their hardwood. He’s stifling a yawn encroaching her doorway, hair flat on one side. There’s drool crusted on the side of his mouth; Blake pulls a face from where she spots him in the mirror.

“G’morning, hot stuff,” another yawn. “Why are you up so early?”

She uncaps her mascara leaning further into her vanity. “I’m going on a walk with Yang.”

His features lose all traces of sleep, brows shooting to his hairline. “Oh, with Yang, are you?”

She can’t stop the smile that flowers at the corners. “ _And_  her little sister, so don’t go getting any ideas.”

“Too late!” He strolls farther into room and practically leaps onto the bed, sending all her clothes tumbling to the floor.

“Watch it, you goon.” As she bends to scoop up a pile there’s a pinch in her left side. Her hand comes quick to soothe it, pressing against the resounding squirm.

Sun watches with careful eyes, grey hardened in steel. “I thought it didn’t hurt you anymore?”

The scar is still dulling pink, though its mostly faded back to match. It’s jagged and rough, a mimic of the blade that stuck her. She remembers the smell, the tang she could feel behind her teeth, the way his eyes glossed, brought back to present by the garbled scream.

Her thumb ghosts the length of it, gives her body something else to focus on. It’s mostly hidden, out of her view except when she bathes; there are days where it never crosses her mind, growing more and more frequent than the days where it always is.

“It doesn’t,” she says, hoarse. “Not really. It’s just phantom pains, I think.”

His tail reaches out, flicks across her abdomen. Her stomach clenches and the pain fades away.

“I’m only going to ask this once, because there will not be a second chance this time.” The moments of Sun’s severity have always caught her off-guard, his malleable personality always adapting, rolling with the punches. He gives little focus to many things—when he means it, he pours in everything he has. “Would Yang—“

“ _No_ ,” Blake answers in confidence, like it’s the most sure she’s ever been.

He takes her in for a beat. Another. And another. The clap of his hands startles her, and his grin is bright as day. He flings himself up from the bed and roots through her closet, hunched over earnestly.

Blake smiles and lets him go, the cap to her mascara breaking free with a pop.

 

-

 

The walk from the subway to the park entrance happens on wobbled knees. There’s no heel to her boot but Blake walks as though there may as well be. It’s absurd, really; it shouldn’t feel new, shouldn’t feel like reaching in blind, but if her intentions are still set by the time meets up with them, it may as well be.

Children squabble over a bag of oats, the squawked peel of laughter startling the ducks they’re off to feed. Cyclists trade space with leisurely walkers, the park in full bloom. The weather holds kites well, several dotted in the cloudless sky. A deep, crimson rolls through amongst the others, carving through the air with grace. She follows the line to its pilot, finds a scarf equally as red, small and crooked beside a shock of blonde pulled high and familiar.

Unsurprising, Zwei spots her first. From how little they’ve interacted—her harrowed stare from across the room—it could be impressive that he recognized her. Not that she’d admit that. He lunges forward, uncaring of the fact that his leash seems to be tied around Ruby’s waist.

Blake stops in her tracks, hands close to amplify her voice but Zwei is off like a rocket sprinting towards her and despite his size, yanks Ruby off her feet. She drops ungracefully with a thud Blake can hear from across the quad. 

Yang’s frozen in place.

Managing to break free from his leash, the dog scurries even closer, faster. Blake drops her hands, spreads her fingers, ears flat against her head as he rounds on her, barkin shrillyll.

“No, no,” Blake retreats, glancing back over her shoulder. “ _Nonono_.”

He leaps into the air, tongue lolling with a dangerous line of drool.

Hands snatch him out of the air just as fast.

“Zwei!” Yang scolds him like she doesn’t quite mean it, mouth torn with amusement. He wiggles in her grasp, fluffing his fur in a matter of directions. He still yaps at her face. Blake’s ears swing forward.

“I don’t like you,” she grumbles. Zwei yips happily.

Stumbling up beside her sister is Ruby, grass-stained knees and a leaf in her hair. She rests her weight on her thighs; Yang plucks away the debris.

“Bl...” Ruby holds up a finger, rights herself. “Blake!”

Blake mirrors her enthusiasm, though slightly dimmed. “Ruby.”

Ruby smarts her elbow between her older sister’s ribs, wrangling the dog free. She holds a finger to his snout and his ears cant, looking thoroughly admonished without Ruby having said a word. She tucks him under her arm, and he seems content, sniffing into the air with the passing breeze.

“We haven’t gone to the cinnamon bun lady yet—"

Yang rolls her eyes, looks pointedly to Blake. “She sells more than just cinnamon rolls.”

“They’re what really matters, sis.” Ruby swings her arm into the air, points up at nothing. Blake follows it, endeared by the gesture. “Give me cinnamon rolls or give me death.”

“This is why dad never let you have sugar.” Yang gives Zwei a scratch between the ears, Ruby a shove to the shoulder. “Go get your kite, loser.”

With a mock salute, Ruby takes off running. The dog bounces happily along on her grasp.

Yang turns to her, bravado still holding up her shoulders, but her eyes are at the ground, deft in misdirection.

It’s a bit rattling to see her, Blake will admit. She came into her life like a reckoning and took a brief absence just as fast. Blake clings to the brevity and hopes it remains as such, the last dredges of worry falling from her chest.

“Yang,” a single note, though a soliloquy on its own.

Yang’s smile starts in a slow bloom from the corners. “You sound happy.”

Blake nods and knows her skin is turning pink, can see Yang’s eyes track it through lavender. “I am.”

It comes full force as easy as drawing breath, a smile that takes over so brilliantly Blake almost has to look away. It blinds like rays of the jilted sun, gathered and given to a girl that radiates.

“I’m glad.”

Blake quirks a brow, accepting an unprompted challenge. “Well, I’m happy that you’re glad.”

Yang rises to the plate, quips, “I’m glad that you’re happy that I’m glad that you’re happy.”

“This makes my head hurt,” Ruby groans, appearing from behind her sister. Zwei sits obediently at her side, collar traded in for a harness. Yang glances behind her unbothered, but Blake can feel her cheeks flush like an old coil radiator.

They start their walk in silence—as silent as Yang’s little sister can be, at least. If she’s not babbling to herself, or the dog, or Yang, or even Blake, she’s creating her own ambiance, popping her lips or blowing harsh breath between them. There’s a soft beat that she hums; Blake recognizes it from something on Ilia’s playlist, maybe Weiss’s, too. The park offers its own volume in step with the noise Ruby makes, and she can only contain herself for so long before she’s in the throw of conversation once more. Yang indulges her, more than happy for a reprieve from the heavy air that reverberates between her and Blake. And she can’t blame her—if Blake hadn’t made a promise to herself, she would be halfway out of the park by now.

Ruby is insatiable, it seems. When she gets bored of Yang’s halfhearted answers, she rounds on Blake, swinging around her sister to loop arms with Blake, peppering her with easy questions, and she reminds her of Sun, confidently earnest but amplified, charming instead of grating. She drags simple answers from her: she loves the color is purple (and the book); _yes_ , she does put pineapple on her pizza and _no_ , it’s not gross; she _does_ have a favorite out of all her plants, and it’s name is Oobleck; being able to fly _would_ be cool, but not as cool as being able to turn invisible.

The shingled awning of the bodega appears over the rim of the last hill, and Ruby practically vibrates in place. She takes off like a shot, already in line before Blake can blink. It’s astonishing.

She leans over to whisper in Yang’s ear, hand coming to hide the other side of her mouth. “Are they really that good?”

Yang huffs out a laugh and plays along, enters her space and mimics her gesture. “No, not really. She just has an addiction.”

Blake adjusts herself feeling the heat from Yang’s body rise with her proximity. Her scarf is too tight around her neck. Her fingers are itching to find solace in her pocket.

They slide easily in line beside Ruby, and the amount that she orders is almost sickening; the woman behind the counter is unphased, it seems, her kind eyes hidden by a pair of shuttered goggles, but Blake can make out the fondness behind them by the wrinkles of crow’s feet that have laid claim to her dark skin. She addresses Ruby by her last name—Blake’s surprised to find that she isn’t.

She recognizes Yang as well, a coffee—two creams, three sugars—already prepared, still piping hot with steam. Before she can pay Blake steps in, orders a tea and slides her card across the counter.

The woman seems to look between them, curious, shrugs without settling on much.

Their order is filled a bit faster than Blake would have assumed, considering the quantity Ruby requested. They’re headed as a unit to a collection of benches nearest them, bordering the largest lake in the park. It dawns on her, then, there would be no perfect way to get time alone with Yang if she didn’t make room for it, and as they quickly approach the benches, she turns on her heel, places her hand boldly at Yang’s hip.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

Yang holds her bare for a moment. Before she can ask, Ruby’s at her side, wrapping Zwei’s leash around her wrist as he hoofs it toward a scattering of ducks.

Blake watches on, amused.

“I thought you didn’t like dogs?” Yang teases, guides them to a nearby bench, a hand settled low on Blake’s back.

“I don’t,” she plops down beside Yang much to the groaning protest of rusting metal. “ _Especially_  yours.”

Yang smiles, too soft to be present. Her eyes glitter against the lake, flecks of orange still dripping onto the surface. Ripples follow in the wake of hummingbirds skimming too low, a splash farther down the bank from two children skipping stones.

Before her lies a painting, even strokes along a canvas brought upon by loving hands. It’s a type of consumption in the way she drinks it in that doesn’t lead way to grasping air; rather, Blake takes partial moments to merely exist in a space that doesn’t demand anything back from her. Yang is still quiet beside her, content to watch the wakefulness of a city morning flourish around them.

“I feel like I have so much to say to you,” she relents, nails picking at the lid of her bodega coffee. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Yang sighs but keeps herself still, body twitching to angle them closer together.

“It’s definitely  _me_  who should start if anything.” Yang pushes her bangs back from her forehead; her ponytail bobs between her shoulders, blonde curls licking down her neck like gold.

Blake has to tear her eyes away. “What do you mean?”

Yang starts to fiddle with her own cup. “The way I reacted the other night,” she casts her eyes back towards the lake, “Over your Tinder. That—" She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, releases it with a soft pop; Blake makes conscious effort to keep from licking her lips. “I don’t know why I did that.”

Clearing her throat, Blake bellies in. “I don’t want you to apologize.”

Her stomach squirms at the curious way Yang’s eyes travel across her face, quiet lilac smearing like oil paint.

“Truthfully,” Blake takes a sip from her coffee, wrinkles her nose at the taste. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

There’s a shift beside her on the bench; maybe on purpose, Yang presses her knee into Blake’s thigh.

“A while ago, something…” Pressure sinks its fingers against her chest. “I was in a really, really bad relationship.”

A definitive press of Yang’s knee this time, unmistakable.

“I don’t really want to get into it right now, but. He… hurt me.” Her hand trembles in her lap; she wishes Yang would reach out and take it. “In more ways than one.”

The flare of anger beside her is nearly tangible: a spike in the temperature, the slice of a cutting breeze, lavender speckled with crimson. It sweeps around her in an odd sort of barrier, resonance melting away from bustling to static. Leaves shake loose from the tree before them, orange petals falling like a threat.

“For the longest time, I tried to escape from myself.” Yang’s hand lies gently against the notch in her spine. It’s her only reprieve. “I’m trying to learn how to stay.”

“Blake,” her voice beckons like a welcome curse, the soft croon of her name. “You don’t have to tell me—”

“There’s something between us,” her hands ball into fists; the lid of her cup pops with a threat off of the rim of Styrofoam. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s _something_.”

And the static turns to dust.

It’s painful, how tight her eyes are closed. Opening them invites the colors of rejection, grey and cold and creeping. It invites

Headfirst has never been her strongest suit.

“Blake,” she calls again, bent over the curve of a smile, something small. “Hey, look at me.”

Yang’s fingers lift her chin and it’s all she can do not to stare. Lilac bleeds out, mauve settling in the spaces it can’t fill on its own. Tender isn’t quite the right word for it—no, something much fonder, something with much more gravity weighs it down, brings a brightness to her smile where it finds Blake’s face open, waiting, wanting.

“I’ve known that for a month, now.”

Blake takes it like a blow to the chest, cracking bones thought unbreakable. She should probably blink; Yang’s amusement grows, flowing into the creases of her eyes, the line between her brow as she squints. A laugh bubbles out of her chest before Blake realizes; Yang joins in and they harmonize, rising together in the perfect melody.

“God,” Blake covers as much of her face with one hand as she can, the other having found its way to rest in Yang’s lap. “That’s…”

Yang leans back into the bench, posture loose with the comfort Blake’s grown accustomed to. Her cheeks are dull with pink, an inkling of what Blake feels growing, growing. Wishing it never stops.

“I figured you had your reasons,” Yang shrugs, toys with the ridges on Blake’s knuckles, bends them with her thumb. “I wasn’t going to project onto your or anything. I know you said you were just looking for friends, and at first, I believed you. And then,” her eyes flash like fire; Blake feels her own smile dip to something wicked, fleeting and brief. “But I saw the way you look at me.”

“Apparently,” she mumbles, feeling a burn all the way to the shell of her ear. “You weren’t the only one.”

“Everyone with eyes could see that.”

“Oh- _kay_ ,” Blake’s laugh is curt, though not unkind. Humor lingers in the creases, brought forward with a bashful flutter. “Cut me some slack. I’m not good at this.”

With a decisive nod, Yang reaches out and tucks a loose hair fanning her cheek behind her ear, fingers trailing against Blake’s skin as she pulls back.

“There’s no one way to do this, you know.” Her words are patient, hung on the effort on making sure Blake listens, knows. “Whatever your past has over you, I’m not going to pretend I understand yet. But I’m not going to put you into a situation where you feel like you don’t have an escape.” Her eyes. Her fucking eyes; Blake can’t stop staring. “Whatever you’re feeling though,” and then she’s bashful, casting her gaze far off at the lake that’s suddenly at rest, the surface no longer taking on the presence of others. “I can promise I’m feeling it just as well.”

The park stirs around them, seeming to only just rise out of a lingering doze despite the vibrancy of the lives that walk through it. It’s a reprieve from the harsh metals of the city, the green fading into cobblestone. It’s lush in a way that reminds Blake of the garden she and her mother kept in Menagerie, contained but no less alive.

She wonders if Yang would ever tend to a garden, if she would let Blake show her how.

“It’s… hard for me, I think.” She wants to take Yang’s fully, purposefully, but it lies in Yang’s lap like lead, afraid to drift too far. “To be romantic.”

And Yang takes the leap for them both. She doesn’t fully take Blake’s hand, but she folds her own over the length of it so that it curls around her, flush and delicate where she claims.

She’s emboldened. “It got… muddled. With a lot of different things that weren’t pleasant. But I want to give it a clean slate.” She finds Yang’s eyes and they beckon her, call to her in a way that almost wavers her confidence. “I hope that’s not… I don’t want to—”

“I think I’ve been waiting a long time for someone like you to come around.” Yang shifts and Blake wants to pull her into her lap, hum dark, pretty nonsense against her ear. The thought grows roots in the back of her mind; Blake intends to let it grow.

Tongue in cheek, Blake finds Yang open and honest and wanting just as much. “You really are something else, Xiao Long.”

Yang’s smile spreads to her eyes, unfurls on delicate lips and carries the weight of lighter musings. “God, I sure hope so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pour one out for clam fam
> 
> chapter title brought to u from limestone by magic city hippies


	6. hearing the song in the static noise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whether it was given or practiced, Yang took control of it, a side of her uncontained that Blake was keying into more and more often, and it thrilled her—to see someone take such pleasure in all that surrounded her had been nothing she’d experienced before.
> 
> Growing, she has a feeling Yang's always been tempting the waters, cashing in a challenge that she’s long since been owed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone in the server: u know u dont need ur wallet to uber right  
> me, has never uber’d: peace_out_disappear.jpeg
> 
> oh god youre all so lovely, thank you for giving me all of your love and time and attention and feedback im FERAL i dont! know how to handle it, i hope i continue to excite u all and keep u on ur toes
> 
> hohohooo god blake and yang soulmates and are in love

“ _Remind me why you’re going to your parent’s house for the weekend and not coming over to watch boring movies with me and my super cool sister again?_ ”

Blake smiles, tucks her phone between her ear and her shoulder. “Because,” she holds up an old band t-shirt from high school that still fit her, folds it in her lap and tucks it inside her bag. “My dad said I was having mood swings and my mother _demanded_ we get mani-pedis together.”

“ _And it’s going to take all weekend?_ ”

“It’s an _ordeal_ for her.”

Yang snickers; the TV in the background catches on the silence between her breathing, gunshots and outrageous shouting coming from Ruby. “ _That’s kind of cute, though_.”

“It’s your fault, anyway,” Blake leans back against her bed frame, examines her nails, frowns. She really should go see a manicurist.

“ _Oh, is it now?_ ”

The tone breaks through the line, and Blake pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. It pops free, a shade darker than before. Her left ear twitches. It’s becoming a common occurrence.

 “I think she just wants to check in with me, mostly.” The bedside lamp casts an oblong shadow on her ceiling, shines against the glow-in-the-dark star stickers Sun tacked on the day they moved in—Blake’s still unsure why she hasn’t taken them down yet. He has matching ones on his bedroom ceiling, too. The succulent sat beside the lamp in its terracotta pot catches the low lamp glow, spikes drawing like cracks against her bedroom wall. Her toiletries are lined up in their respective travel containers around her bag on the floor, clothes scattered about. Even going to her parents’ house ignites a simmering paranoia that’s forgotten necessities, despite the fact that her parents’ probably have more of Blake’s belongings in their home than she does herself. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a girl’s night. And my dad gets to eat cold leftovers without my mom nagging him, so he loves it just as much.”

Yang hums, content like she’s somewhere far off, reminiscent. “ _My dad’s the same way_.”

“Is that a thing? Like, are men born with the innate desire to eat cold take-out with the fridge door still open?”

Another hum, though this one is pensive, like Yang’s actually putting thought into it. A shrill squeak cuts through the line—Ruby calls out her sister’s name as Yang sniggers into the phone line, turned suddenly combative.

“ _Don’t be a sore loser, sis_.”

Blake hears nothing but nearly violent wailing. Slight concern rattles up. “What are you doing to Ruby?”

“ _Just absolutely kicking her butt in Mortal Combat_.”

Ruby tries to shout something down the phone, but it cuts short, almost like she’s been muffled.

Blake’s heart flutters, soft. It grows, spreads through the entirety of her chest, the earnestness of the two sisters. “Go play. I have to finish packing, anyway.”

“ _Okay_ ,” comes Yang’s voice, too soft, nearly sad. Blake wants to soothe, reach through the static and rest a hand where Yang’s most tender, most open. “ _Text me?_ ”

Blake’s response is automatic. “Of course.”

There’s a pause. Blake imagines Yang worrying on her bottom lip, aches to hold Yang’s jaw in her hands, aches to know how it folds beneath her thumbs.

“ _Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do_ ,” Yang says, some of the humor returning to her voice. “ _Goodnight, Blake_.”

She thrills at her name falling from Yang’s lips. The static does little to mask the sincerity to the sound of it, like satin or silk, something delicate.

“Goodnight, Yang,” she murmurs back. Hanging up, she tilts her head back against the mattress, presses her phone against her chest where she _swears_ it lights up from below her sternum, blinding.

 

-

 

Saturday finds her running errands across what feels like the entirety of Vale with her mother, finally having an excuse to spend an excessive amount of money on her daughter, which Blake vehemently protests. She ends up with three new scarfs, a new parka, and several pairs of heat-trapping socks. They do so much running around that they nearly miss their appointment. The manicurists tut, but they set to work. Kali settles on a nude polish. Blake tries out gold.

Ghira’s in the midst of preparing a fish fry when his wife and daughter step through the door again, arms laden with boutique shopping bags. Blake gives him a shrug, his wife kisses his cheek, and they stay up too late and have too much wine. Her dad brings up Yang and Blake spills out from herself, feels it spread through her and into a smile that bleeds. Her mother holds her hand from across the table. Her father beams like he couldn’t be more proud. She falls asleep with her phone on her chest, hoping to feel it buzz.

Sunday had always been Blake’s favorite day of the week when she had been younger, even more so in the early Menagerie mornings. Waking to sound of her mother’s crooning laughter, the whistle of the ceramic tea kettle (a wedding gift from her mother’s parents) a distant hum; the smell of fried egg swept through the halls, sizzling bacon and freshly baked bread from the market down the street, porridge basted in sharp, pickled garlic. Ghira would read the paper with Blake on his lap, his daughter studiously trying her best to follow along—Blake was eventually given the funnies when the page dragged on and on, too busy-minded for her attention to be held long. Kali would scribble through crosswords, often sharing with Blake when she started to read and write—it’s how Blake learned to babble off words like _cacophony_ and _pernicious_ before she had lost all of her baby teeth.

It fills her warm to be able to say that, even after two decades, nothing much has changed.

(Except that now she reads the fashion section in her own chair, and her mother no longer pretends to need her help; sometimes she actively needs it).

Her mother taps the eraser of her pencil off her bottom lip, eyes shrewd and naked from their usual shimmer of her purple. Her right ear flicks out, gold studs catching the light from the chandelier. “Downhill skiing style…” she mutters mostly to herself. Blake takes it in thought, satisfied with herself as she cradles her teacup in both hands.

“Slalom,” she answers with an accompanying nod. Her mother’s eyes widen in the slightest, her pencil hesitantly filling in the blocks. It seems to fit, and Kali hums to herself, pleased.

She drops a sugar cube into her own teacup and stirs it until it dissolves. “You know, honey, if you’re wrong, I’ll never forgive you.”

Blake rolls her eyes, a fondness to the curl. “You say that every time.”

Her mother’s smile is more a smirk than most. She points the pencil at her eraser-side-up and gestures in a twirl around Blake’s face. “That’s why you’ve given me no reason to doubt you yet.”

“She’s just like you, dear,” her father broods, carrying their three bowls over to the table. His sigh isn’t genuine, a teasing gesture meant to goad his wife simply to amuse himself. “You’re both always right.”

The bowl he sets down in front of Blake has her rolling her eyes once more, but this time it brings a tinge to her cheeks. Two fried eggs are side-by-side, bacon crooked and crisp to look like a smile. “Dad,” she says, setting down her tea.

Ghira looks steadfastly at his own bowl of congee—he takes a pinch of scallions from the plate in the center of the table and drops it over his porridge. “What?” he says, clenching his teeth to keep a smile at bay.

Blake decides to let him have it. She finishes the last dregs of her tea, and when she sets her cup back onto its saucer her mother picks it up just as quickly, setting about to study the tea leaves left on the polished porcelain. Her mother hums with mirth, going so far as to take her chin between her thumb and forefinger while doing so.

The color in Blake’s cheeks does nothing but grow warmer.

“Incredible,” Kali mumbles to herself, leans over to show her husband, pointing at nothing in particular. He feigns an exuberant amount of interest, furrowing his brows and nodding along.

“Indeed,” he agrees, rather much enjoying the way his daughter’s face brightens in splotches of red and pink.

“What?” Blake huffs, indignantly digging her spoon into her bowl. She takes a bite with everything on it, almost too big to fit in her mouth. When she swallows, she can see her parents trying to hide their laughter from her behind their hands—they’re doing poorly, and they know it. “What do my _mystical tea leaves_ say this time?” She wiggles her fingers for added effect.

For her _own_ added effect, Kali covers her mouth with her hand and raises her eyebrows. Ghira follows in step, leaning further against his wife as they huddle together and pretend to whisper.

“Should we tell her?”

“It only seems fair.”

“But can she _handle_ it?”

“I’m _going_ to _handle_ walking out the door with an empty stomach if you two don’t stop being dumb,” the heat behind her words was lost in her (unfortunately, embarrassing) intrigue the longer they spoke to themselves in their obvious ploy to rile her up. “Seriously, guys.”

“It says...” her father drags, leaning back from his wife to give her a sly smirk, knowing it’ll infuriate his daughter the longer they sit in silence.

Her mother is no better, purposefully taking a pregnant pause; Blake tries not to twitch in her seat.

“It says,” she drawls, looking practically starry-eyed. “That someone is going to fall in love with you.”

Blake actually feels genuine annoyance prickle in her spine. “Grow up.”

“And _she’ll_ ,” her mother makes sure to stress, “Have long, curly blonde hair and purple eyes and she’ll love to go on long hikes and make you laugh—”

“ _Mom!_ ” Blake shoots up from across the table, and the heat spreads from to her toes, the tips of her fingers, her ears, and pools into deeper scarlet in the swell of her cheeks. Her mother swipes the cup just out of her reach, Ghira taking it from her only hold it even farther away. Blake groans, drops defeated into her seat. Her head hangs over the back of the chair, running a hand over her face. “I _seriously_ regret telling you anything.”

“I am but a muse for which the leaves speak through, my love,” Kali presses an innocent hand to her chest, tossing a wink over the table. Her husband teeters over with a heavy guffaw, elbowing his wife in the side.

“And you told Dad,” Blake snaps her head back up and tries to best to sound angry. “What happened to mother-daughter confidentiality?”

“Blake,” Kali dips her spoon into her own bowl and pauses to chew before speaking again. “I only said that to make you feel better.”

“Yeah, well. I know that now.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” her father coos from across the table, reaching out to pinch her cheeks. Blake swats him away. “Your secret is safe with me. And your mother.”

The tension that peeks high in her mother’s shoulders ghosts suspicion down Blake’s spine. Her eyes narrow, and her mother does her best to find something else to focus on.

“Mom…”

“Look—”

“Oh, no,” Ghira sighs, rubbing his forehead. “What did you do?”

Kali busies herself with her food, doing her best to savor each bite before her daughter combusts from across the dining room.

“Weiss _may_ have called me last night, and I _may_ havelet it slip,” she says sheepishly—the slow way she stirs her porridge in and of itself guilty enough. “I _may_ have had an extra glass of wine after you went to bed.”

Blake lurches from her seat and bolts through to the kitchen, snatching up her phone from the counter.

 

To: **Ice Queen**

Weiss.

**Ice Queen**

Traitor.

**Me**

I was going to tell you, I swear.

**Ice Queen**

When? On my deathbed?

**Me**

Weiss, please.

**Ice Queen**

You and I are going to sit down and have a nice, long chat about all of this.

I can’t believe I had to find out through your mom.

**Me**

I wanted to tell you first, honest.

It just slipped out.

I wasn’t thinking.

I promise I’ll tell you everything.

_Read at 9:23am_

 

“Mother,” Blake pushes it through gritted teeth, pressing the heel of her palm to her forehead.

“Darling,” comes from the dining room, sickeningly sweet and brimming with honeyed intentions. It’s not helping.

There’s an odd fondness that spreads through her father’s smile, glossy-eyed and far off, reflecting on the familiar.

“It’s just like when you were a teenager,” he says.

Blake totally _does not_ stomp up to her bedroom.

 

-

 

(She fumes for about twenty minutes before coming back down the stairs, ears tucked bag against her head with an apology hanging near out of her mouth when her phone pings. Something strong beats beside her heart in her chest.

 

**Yang Xiao Long**

good morning, beautiful! )

 

-

 

Instead of text messages, it becomes phone calls. Living nearly a city apart kept them from seeing each other much more than was Blake’s liking, but the added bonus of having Yang only a swipe of her thumb away placated most of her woes—namely those of thinking Yang wasn’t interested in her.

That promptly ended, like, three days later.

Blake’s never really made any sort of connection through technology. Aside from the odd game or so, she kept her phone for the sole purpose of communication. (“You know, like they’re _meant_ to be used,” she says to Sun one night. He blinks up at her from over his screen then returns to Fortnite, sparing her no second glance).

Occasionally, in the group chat with the four of them (five, now, that Sun added Ilia), Sun and Neptune would send drunk selfies—impressing none of them. The extent to which Blake used her phone for lightly flirting with someone she probably (most definitely) had a crush on was nonexistent.

But that wasn’t going to stop Yang. Oh, no.

Not in the slightest.

The strangest thing is that, for Blake, it never feels overbearing. The difference that seeps through, Yang double-texting her and Adam leaving five voicemails—the meaning isn’t lost on her. A key in a lock, turning to release or to capture. The ability to choose for herself is where her inexperience lies. Maybe she might need some help, but she has no doubt Yang would be more than willing to hold out her hand.

Perhaps the most unexpected of it all was that Yang was unabashedly beautiful, and she knew it. The level of self-confidence was astounding, tangible; Yang could reach out and gather the stars in her hands and the universe would bend to her will. The same hands that built, helped, healed—Blake wonders in what other ways could Yang’s hands reshape her own destiny, if maybe Yang could wind theirs’ together.

A part of her feels silly trying to describe the flutter in her chest when Yang’s name lights up her screen. She always feels the need to justify the smile that blooms in the quiet she builds for herself, even in public, in the company of others. But the apologies never spill—one will build, and Yang says hello, and something cracks; it might be porcelain, the wall she’s masked herself in, which makes it that much easier to shatter. Blake’s finally ready to watch it crumble.

 

-

 

She’s not one to allow her mind to wander at work, always having something that needs her attention—her dad or Ilia or clients, phone calls and emails, typing drafts and collaborating with her less than impressive team members. There was no downtime for her; she kept in pace, and even sometimes a few steps ahead, with her colleagues and sometimes out-worked her father, a self-diagnosed workaholic. When Blake’s phone chimes she swipes it up hastily, drawing attention from Ilia across their desk, face buried in her computer monitor.

She glances about as if about to be caught—realizing that she’s not the only one barely putting effort into their work. The name across her screen is a better distraction than a six-page proposal, anyhow.

 

**Yang Xiao Long**

i’m bored

 

Blake smiles.

 

**Me**

Aren’t you at work?

**Yang Xiao Long**

yes

i’m still bored

mercury won’t stop running his stupid mouth during this meeting and i stopped listening ten minutes ago

**Me**

Yang.

**Yang Xiao Long**

i hate sitting still

i just want to get my hands on something

 

A thought passes through her; Blake shuts her eyes tight against it.

 

**Me**

Are you not working in the lab today?

**Yang Xiao Long**

no, today i’m mostly meeting with donors and prospective partners for my project

**Me**

Yang, you should be paying attention.

Yang Xiao Long

but i’m bored

and i’ve been wanting to talk to you all day.

 

The speed in which her heart skips is almost embarrassing.

Me

You can talk to me later.

Actually, are you free this weekend?

You, me, and Ruby should go to that arcade bar you’re always talking about.

**Yang Xiao Long**

omg you’d be willing to risk getting a migraine for me?

i’m touched

**Me**

Don’t think too much about it.

I’m doing it mostly for Ruby.

**Yang Xiao Long**

oh, i definitely believe that

anyway, i actually had something else in mind for this weekend

 

To say that she’s disappointed would be underselling it. The emotion isn’t something she’s able to place, though she reasons it’s akin to sinking.

 

**Me**

Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize you had plans.

The response is almost immediate.

 

**Yang Xiao Long**

well, i don’t

not unless you say yes

 

Like breaking surface after treading water.

 

**Me**

What did you have in mind?

**Yang Xiao Long**

i promise you’ll LOVE it, but i’m not going to tell you

it’s a secret

**Me**

A secret?

**Yang Xiao Long**

more like an adventure

**Me**

To where?

**Yang Xiao Long**

i just said i can’t tell you!!

it’ll be an adventure

blake belladonna, will you go on an adventure with me?

 

The room around her expands, everything warm to the touch. She can feel exactly everything that touches her skin, all the places that she wishes Yang’s hands were, the places she looks for her smile, sun streaming in through the windows, the city looking on, looking in. Blake imagines her at work, smiling though desperate to hide it, hair pulled back and out of her face, a mostly-empty legal pad next to her, little scribbles where she refuses to be idle.

Blake imagines, imagines, and takes steps forward.

 

**Me**

Yang Xiao Long.

I’m starting to think that I’d be willing to follow you anywhere.

 

-

 

“I don’t see you.”

“ _Really?_ ” There’s something of a grunt on the other end of the line. “ _I’m literally jumping up and down._ ”

Blake snorts. “Which end of the park?”

“ _Where the tamale lady is_.”

“…That’s the South end.”

“ _Where… are you?_ ”

Blake rolls her eyes, though annoyance hasn’t sprung forward. “I’m on the North end. Like, where you told me to meet you?”

“ _Wait, really?_ ” Yang’s voice slowly fades; a car horn, muted, comes through the other end of the line, and then distantly, Yang returns with: “ _Oh, mother fucker_.”

A laugh overtakes her before she can stop it. She hears a huff though it’s not without mirth, Yang no doubt smiling.

Blake braces herself against another whipping breeze, muscles tight, refusing to shiver. “I can head towards you if you want?”

“ _No, no_ ,” Yang counters and Blake imagines that she’s being waved off as if they were standing before each other. “ _It’s easier to get on the subway from where you are. Give me ten minutes?_ ”

A doubtful arch of her brow. “You’re going to cross the entirety of Nikos’ park in ten minutes?”

“ _Yes_.” Yang quips, her breath already catching on itself. “ _Actually, I bet that I can make it in under ten minutes_.”

Blake frowns, unconvinced. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

A laugh sparks out of her like a firecracker, confident and brash. “ _Oh, believe it, babe_.”

The line clicks from the other end, but Blake still has her phone tucked against her shoulder, breath puffing through her lips as listless steam, unguarded.

She pulls her phone back far enough to see the screen—Yang’s contact info is front and center, and Blake hovers her thumb over her name at the top, legs too heavy.

Blake rests her back against the ancient half-wall of brick casing the entirety of the park, covering her hand with her mouth. The wind bites her cheeks, leaves her huddled against herself. The wall doesn’t fare any better for bringing solace—it clings to the cold with a fatal flaw, clawing and crumbling in sections of disrepair. The charm of it is ever present, no doubt, but regardless of its original intent, it offers little protection from most of the mainstays of nature. The only new addition that Blake’s noticed has been the gold-engraved placard at the main entrance, crowdfunded by the citizens of Vale a few years prior. It catches the glint of light that breaks through greying clouds, and Blake pushes herself from the wall and heads towards it. She traces a gloved hand below the engraving, splaying her hand on the cherry-tinted wood beneath it.

_Pyrrah Nikos_

_Infinite in distance and unbound by death, I release your soul, and by my shoulder, protect thee._

Teetering on what is not _quite_ a smile, Blake takes pause as a leaf dances between her and the placard, golden-tinged and red-winged, taking flight beyond the gates.

Soon after, boots skid along the walkway to the left of her and she turns; what is mostly a blur of blonde hair and flailing limbs nearly tumbling into the concrete. Yang catches herself inches from her jaw connecting, whipping her head to peak up at Blake, grin wild and crooked.

“How…” her entire upper body shudders as she hoists herself off the ground with the hand Blake extends to her. She teeters, but grips steadfast to Blake’s wrist, grounding herself. Her further blooming smile is cocksure and triumphant, pressing her fists to her hips, already prepared to accept her victory.

Blake almost doesn’t tell her she’s won.

But, she caves. “What did you win?”

Tapping her chin, Yang looks up and off to the side, cheeks warm. “I don’t know. Can I cash it in later?”

Blake rolls her eyes and takes Yang by the elbow, sweeping down the sidewalk in tandem.

As they walk away, Yang skims her hand across the placard until it’s out of reach.

The subway station isn’t far, and past the crosswalk Yang wiggles herself free and bypasses the crowd, pushing through bodies and Blake can barely keep up. She goes to call out to her but stops short; Yang hops up onto the rail and curls her knees around the flaking metal, kicks herself into a slide.

Blake sighs. “Christ.”

She takes off after her.

Yang’s waiting for at the bottom of the stairwell, back to that stance she held outside of the park. Blake’s mouth is flat, pressed into a line as she crosses her arms, taps her foot, waits for an explanation.

And Yang only shrugs, shimmying into Blake’s space. Blake’s cheeks warm, but a smile slowly unfurls.

“Felt right,” says Yang and bites on her tongue, motions for Blake to follow her.

Yang swipes the both of them through the line on the faux notion of chivalry, sweeping her arms into a bow and the flamboyancy of her, her audaciousness and pride with every carefree motion is something so ingrained in her, Blake thinks. Whether it was given or practiced, Yang took control of it, a side of her uncontained that Blake was keying into more and more often, and it thrilled her—to see someone take such pleasure in all that surrounded her had been nothing she’d experienced before.

Growing, she has a feeling Yang’s always been tempting the waters, cashing in a challenge that she’s long since been owed.

“You never exactly told me where we’re going, by the way,” says Blake. They’re standing side-by-side, shoulders brushing on the subway platform, the crowd milling about them, bending to their space.

Yang doesn’t turn to face her; lilac dips down to the corner of her eyes, casts a wink down at Blake. “That was deliberate.”

“I figured,” Blake quips, settling more into Yang’s side. Heat rolls off of her in waves and Blake wants to sink her fingers in, tear it free and wrap herself inside it. Winter was weeks—days—away, and now knowing that Yang produces enough heat that she might as well be a solar system in and of herself, Blake will no doubt reap the benefits of staying in her orbit.

“Trust me,” Yang nudges her, though from how close they are it jostles them both. A shy laugh follows. “I have a feeling you’ll like where we’re headed. There’s most likely free wine _and_ cookies.”

Blake wrinkles her nose. “That doesn’t sound like a good combination.”

Yang beams. “I know. But it’s _free_.”

They hear the subway crashing against the rails before it breaks through the tunnel. More people enter than exit, leaving little room for the two of them to squeeze by and still remain next to each other. There are no empty seats and they end up standing between two rows overflowing with passengers. Some turn to Blake and zero in on her ears, though from how quickly they shrink back, a glare other than her own is likely the cause.

“Assholes,” Yang mutters, mostly to herself. She stuffs one hand into the pocket of her jacket, wraps the other around the pole between them.

Blake tries, fails, not to stare—long lashes fluttering against lavender cracked into fuchsia, a hard curve to pale lips, the hand that grips hard enough to the metal that Blake’s half sure will leave indents, white-knuckled to a breaking point.

In stride, Blake musters the courage, her hand dragging slow up the pole. Looking off down the aisle, it comes to rest just below Yang’s, pinky twitching against Blake’s knuckles.

Yang looks off to the side on her own, opens her palm and tucks two fingers between Blake’s, the subway roaring through the tunnels.

Blinding and persistent, light grows out from Blake’s chest and settles in the base of her throat.

 

-

 

The subway comes to a halt and Yang takes her by the sleeve, rushing out the doors just barely after they hiss open. Blake stumbles for a passing moment but rights herself almost immediately, knowing she’d taste the subway platform otherwise.

It’s a winding path to push through all of the bodies that crowd the stairwell, but when they break free onto the sidewalk on the far side of the city Blake takes it all in, feels as though the air is almost thinner here, in a way. Not necessarily in a bad way, either. Like the press of the city could touch them here.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here, or am I supposed to just follow along, no questions asked?” Blake’s sleeve is still in Yang’s grasp, leading her until they can walk side by side. Her pinky stretches out, taps the smooth skin on Blake’s wrist, burning.

“I was hoping it would be the latter, but now I’m starting to realize that that’s not going to fly.” Yang slips her hand lower, lower, rests her fingers against Blake’s palm, not quite taking it. “We’re going to an open house.”

Her hand flexes, taking pause. “An open house?”

“Technically, open house… _es_.” A smile cocks crooked on her mouth as she looks down, Blake staring back up at her, incredulous. “Trust me, it’s fun.”

Blake hovers like a skeptic, squinting against the sun. “I’ve never heard anyone talk about open houses as… fun.”

Yang flashes her another wild, boisterous grin, spreads her fingers until Blake understands; the speed in which she slides her fingers through Yang’s would be laughable if the crack of white heat, supernova, hadn’t settled in the creases of both their knuckles, the bones that hold one another close.

Yang’s nearly scarlet when Blake dares to look. Like fallen petals, purple cascades and flowers, traces through the whites of her eyes like a threatening spring.

Yang has to clear her throat—thrice—before she’s able to speak once again. “When… Ruby and I were young, I used to take her to open houses to get her mind off of things.” She rolls her shoulders; Blake feels the movement as if it were her own. “It took us a while to scope out which real estate company had the best spreads. We only went to the ones that put out cookies from local bakeries. I’m genuinely surprised no one caught on to what we were doing. Or,” she scrunches her nose, adjusts her hold on Blake’s hand. “Maybe they did, but they were just being nice. It’s kind of hard _not_ to notice us.”

Blake smile, fond. “Why not just bake them yourselves? Not that that isn’t, like, the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard.”

Yang offers her a smile, full of caution. Blake senses the change, gives Yang’s hand a tentative squeeze and Yang returns it like she’s two steps ahead, knowing Blake before herself. “It’s… kind of a heavy subject.”

The street mills about with bodies, seeming to part for them like the red sea. No one bumps into them as Blake brings them both to a stop, taking Yang’s other hand into hers and holding them between their chests, weightless.

“Yang,” Blake calls her name like it will tether them both to now. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Yang looks around. Without removing her hands from Blake’s grasps, she checks her watch, scrutinizing it.

“We have plenty of time, still.” Yang lifts her hand as if to hold Blake’s cheek; Blake already leans for it, heart swollen; though, Yang slows halfway, rests it on Blake’s bicep with a purposeful squeeze. “I’d like to tell you about it. Could we walk and talk?”

Blake wills her answering smile to bring Yang some inkling of comfort; the quirk of her lips allots for her success. “Of course.”

Yang takes her by the elbow, and they walk.

They come to a stop at a crosswalk. Yang pushes the button, settles heavy into a sigh that sags against her shoulders.

“Ruby’s mom died when we were really young,” she begins and it’s enough for Blake to sink. “We… I think I was, like, four? I think.” Her frown dims the sun overhead; the clouds swell, darkening. “Ruby couldn’t have been older than two. We don’t really know what happened, really. Dad wouldn’t tell us. Only that she’d been killed overseas, and that we were going to have to drape the flag over her coffin.”

“Oh,” Blake feels it rattle her bones, claws into her skin, leaves marks. “ _Yang_.”

Yang waves it off, though it lacks any character. “It’s okay. I’ve had twenty years to come to terms with it.”

Blake smothers a frown.

Yang continues, “She used to have this,” Yang wets her lips and a quip of laughter breaks through. “Incredible cookie recipe. It was Ruby’s favorite. I didn’t quite get the hang of reading or using the oven until I was a bit older, but,” Blake joins in the quiet musing as they bend the corner. “It was one of the only things that would cheer her up, and my dad would always burn them.

“So,” she rolls her shoulders. “One day, I was taking Ruby to the store—there was this long period of time where my dad was, like, wrought with grief, could barely do anything for himself—and we saw a sign for an open house.” A grin finds its way through with the memory. “Ruby liked the railings on the stairs and begged for me to take her inside. I almost didn’t,” she finally meets Blake’s eyes, her own full of fledging wonder. “I’m so glad I did.

“They had, like, some of the best cookies we’d ever eaten. Of course, the relator showing off the townhouse was, like, definitely on to us, because no one claimed us to be their kids. Before we were found out, we managed to slip away and took off down the street.” And the grin is now blinding, Yang returning to herself. “Thus, began our nearly decade-long cookie heist. Until I figured out how to make Summer’s cookies the right way. Then Ruby did nothing but stuff her face full of them all day.”

Blake latches onto the name, like it means something to her, too. “Summer?”

Yang nods. “Ruby’s mom.”

“But not yours?”

“No,” Yang winds herself tighter against Blake, impossibly close. “Same dad, different moms.”

Blake looks down to the sidewalk, pensive. “If you don’t mind me asking—”

“She’s not like, dead or anything.” Her face hardens, statuesque and stoic. “Raven’s just… I guess estranged is the best way to describe it.” There’s a downward quirk to her mouth and Blake tugs, shifts Yang’s focus back to her; it softens, grateful for the change.

“These cookies better be worth it,” Blake feigns coyness, dragging Yang along towards the staircase with a sign situated beside it, balloons tied around the handrail. “Like I said before, people know my last name. I can’t be caught doing anything… untoward.”

Yang barks out a laugh, surprising both of them with the volume. She shakes her head. “ _Untoward_ ,” she mimics, honing on the high notes of Blake’s syllables.

Yang offers her arm, bowed like a prince, and Blake takes it, thinks of glass slippers.

 

-

 

The first townhouse was packed to near capacity. All of the good wine had been drained long before they arrived, only a few finger sandwiches remaining. The interior isn’t something that interests either of them—“I like sleek and steel,” says Blake. “I only like places that look like old fire stations,” says Yang. It’s nice, for what it is: colonial crammed into a city space ill-equipped to hold all of it without making sacrifices. The chandelier in the dining room is tacky; the carpeted staircase is what does it for Blake. Yang leads her out and down the street, but not before she snags the last two sandwiches. She hands one to Blake, who rolls her eyes but bites into it nonetheless. The cucumber is crisps, snaps on command.

The second apartment is more up to her speed. Stainless steel appliances and subway tiles, vented hood above the electric stove, protected in glass. They’re the first ones to step in the door, and the realtor looks more than exited to show them around, pours them both too much wine and begins a tour. Blake feels her wallet burning a hole in her pocket. It’s the penthouse, peering down into the city like its own oasis. Floor-to-ceiling windows line most of the exterior, including the bedroom. A wicked thought crosses her mind, and it seems like Yang shares it, turning to her the moment it strikes them both. They both look away quicker than they should. The realtor eyes them, piecing it together just as she’s begun to ask about them as a couple.

It’s Blake who stuffs the cookies into her pocket when another family comes in, long enough to cause a distraction.

The third house is…

Blake’s not exactly sure how to describe it, other than:

“Are you trying to Stepford Wives me?”

Yang laughs until it hurts.

They’re a bit farther outside of the city, teetering into the suburbs. The houses begin to spread out, the illusion of having both front and back lawns. This house in particular, however, seems like something out of a cartoon.

Its exterior is a sickly, bubblegum pink, with white trim framing the siding, the staircase. Even the door is accosting, the faded stained glass clashing with the stark colors of everything.

“This…” Blake really doesn’t know what to say. “This makes my eyes hurt.”

Yang’s grin is toothy, crooked. “Right? C’mon.” She takes Blake’s hand and leads her through the front door.

The woman listing the house, an older Faunus woman with long whiskers and even longer white curls, greets them as they enter, taking Blake’s hand with more enthusiasm that expected. Blake understands, grips her tighter before letting go. She’s dizzyingly polite, her fluffed white blouse contrasting her full, rosy cheeks. She steps forward like she has more to say, but more people crowd the doorway, and she’s being called back to host.

There’s something that sticks out to Blake as they traipse through the halls, though she’s having trouble placing it. Cozy is a close bet, but the audacious color scheme has bled into the house. Maybe it’s the wine they’d helped themselves to.

It doesn’t come to her until they finally pass into the kitchen, the stark yellow walls nearly causing them both to squint. Yang whistles, takes purposeful steps around the island to study the rest of the _very_ loud interior—green countertops speckled in gray and gold, a poor attempt to mimic luxury granite; the knobs on the cabinet doors are all crystal, dull like they haven’t been polished for at least a decade; there’s a funny-looking wooden chicken decal nailed above the sink—the wood looks fresh, like it’s the most recent addition.

Skimming her fingers over the counters, Blake stops just before the plate of sweets the owner herself made for her guests. There are still flecks of flour on the countertop she must have missed in the rush to make everything look presentable. She doesn’t know why she swipes it up with her thumb, but she rolls it between her fingers until it shatters like dust against the leg of her jeans. She lets it be.

She hadn’t realized how quiet the house had grown until footsteps tread a bit farther off, scampering around too roughly to be filing through the halls with any organization. They’re distant, almost imperceptible, but they grow in number, velocity, and they sound familiar to her own—maybe quicker, possibly. Lighter, even.

No, she thinks. Smaller.

She blinks, putting force behind it. Opening her eyes to call out for Yang, her syllable falls away, and Blake’s caught in the sight before her, nearly stumbling backwards.

That definitely isn’t the outfit Yang came here with—unless, she took off her jacket? There are no sleeves on a shirt that Blake recognizes as one of her own, cut along the seam to fray. When did she pick up a mixing bowl? Flour is all over her cheeks, in her hair that’s been pulled up into a messy bun, strands falling down to hold her jaw with care. An apron is tied around her neck, her waist, cartoonish doodles of eggs and bacon scattered about. The whisk in her hand slips, splashing batter all over her chest, the bottom of her chin. There’s a sigh without depth behind it, like she was used to this kind of slip, and the lines around her mouth—hardened, deepened—pull taut as she smiles to herself, turns her head, watching Blake watch her before the smile blooms even farther.

“Blake,” she breathes, as though she had been waiting to say it out loud her entire life.

Something in Blake’s chest shatters. The hammering against her ribs is nearly painful, almost enough to double her over. It settles less like a rock and more like something sprawling, light and definite and alive.

She shakes her head with purpose. It doesn’t go away.

“Blake,” calls Yang, a bit apprehensive, turning her entire body towards her. The shirt definitely belongs—belonged?—to her. Worry settles between her brows and she’s older, it seems, though not by much. What’s changed is the sureness that curves in lilac and lavender and all shades and hues between, the way she fits more into her shoulders, the fullness to her cheeks.

Blake blinks again and it hurts.

“Blake?” The voice croons, suddenly close. Blake’s eyes peel open in a careful guard, the sight of Yang’s boots tying her down with a sudden weight, an anvil. Yang’s bent down to catch her eye, concern finding hold like it’s permanent. There’s pressure on her cheek—Yang’s hand, solid and strong and warm, another on her shoulder, settling her. The branding in her chest has dulled to that of an older ache, acquired without her realization.

There’s no flour on her cheeks, only deep, dark freckles painted like stardust over a proud nose. The lines in her face are soft. The footsteps behind her are no longer hurried.

The room is still the same, as well as everything in it, nothing out of place. The only thing that changes is how close—terrifyingly close—Yang is to her now. A smile curls out along the bow of her lip, pink and proud. Yang steps from her space now that Blake’s back to the present, though she still feels as if she’s drifting.

Looking up, the yellow walls grow into Yang much like Blake herself, making themselves vulnerable that Yang takes in stride, folds around her like they’ve been meant to. The green countertops no longer seem quite as outlandish as Yang leans back against them. The wooden chicken, however, is still stark and odd, but Blake thinks it fits, much like everything else. Falling into place. Claiming space as its own.

“The yellow really is something, huh? I thought I lost you there for a second,” Yang quips, snatching up a mini quiche and stuffing into her mouth whole. Blake can’t find it in her to be bothered.

Never, she thinks, almost says.

It fights against her teeth, needing to be said aloud.

And it crashes into her—in every house, in every room, could be somewhere Yang belongs. The corners would finally catch light like a warm lantern glow. Rooms would grow in size, brighter, louder, swelling with all of her, everything she puts out into the world finally giving back.

It strikes Blake like a dull match, kindling into an almost spark.

Like Yang could make any space her own.

Like she could make any house a home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy, it’s me
> 
> please forgive my cultural ignorance, i just wanted some nonwhite belladonnas
> 
> also i've been binging the act and all i cant think about is how fucking UGLY the blanchard's house is, if that looks familiar lmao
> 
> chapter title from after life by ashe


	7. sunflower still grows at night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are signs that warm the longer she stares, the longer she watches Yang trace the smaller collections of her life with more interest than Blake has for herself. A yearning settles in Yang’s shoulders and Blake thinks she can see the desire for more—to know more, feel more. Be more, even.
> 
> Correcting herself—she’s sure of what she sees; sure of what she sees and what she aches for on her own accord.
> 
> “Yang,” she says, and it’s like breaking through glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cannot say anything other than i am very very soRRY that you all had to wait two weeks for me to pump out this hot garbage for you. my offer to die for u all still stands. as always i proofread nothing and then dumped this in ur laps.
> 
> also, in terms of this chapter: :^)

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

They’re not far from Blake’s place. The sidewalks are strangely barren for the time of day, giving them plenty of room to fall in step together. They’re linked loosely by their fingers, not exactly holding hands proper, however. Lucky for her, otherwise Yang would have felt her trembling.

It rattles her, Yang’s question, having spent the trip prior in near silence. Yang hadn’t pried, though Blake could see that not knowing was eating away at her. She’s surprised she’d lasted this long.

Truthfully, Blake wasn’t sure.

She wasn’t _not_ okay—finding a new possibility across from her in a kitchen _had_ left her a bit dazed, if anything. It wasn’t as though she felt anything unpleasant, either. Rather, an overwhelming something, _something_ , took her lungs and squeezed. Even if she wanted to tell Yang all of it, there was no real way for her to go about it and be completely understood.

“I’m alright,” she half-lies, completely of her own ignorance. It sits funny on her tongue after it’s spoken, still not quite right.

Yang’s been getting better at reading her. “Really?”

Blake doesn’t respond verbally, but she reaches out to Yang’s hip, splays her fingers open over the width of her. Yang looks for her much the same, rests her hand atop of Blake’s, thumb light on her pulse. She takes Blake’s cheek with the other, offering her eyes instead of demanding Blake’s.

“I can tell that something’s bothering you,” Yang says, plain. Subtlety doesn’t often apply to her. “But I don’t want you to feel like you have to tell me. Know that I’m here, okay?”

Blake had thought she would only ever be in love once—she hadn’t expected to start finding it in the middle of a sidewalk.

It should be now—it should be her pulling Yang in by her neck, it should be her with hands in Yang’s hair, tasting her mouth and finding the ways that she likes to be kissed, to be touched. It should be that she invites Yang inside, peel off her layers until Blake can see the whole of her, smooth her hands over skin and be closer, be more, feel more touch more touch _her_ —

All that’s between them shrinks as Yang leans close. It causes Blake to shuffle, darting between Yang’s eyes and down to her mouth.

Her pretty, pink mouth.

“I’m having a party,” hand on Yang’s chest, a piece of hair gets caught in Blake’s mouth as she speaks; she tries not to sputter moving it out of the way. “Um, next weekend. My friends and I always have, like, a pseudo-holiday party every year, and—” she tries to smile, knows it must shake. “I offered to host this time.”

Blinking, Yang sways back from her. “What?” she rasps, dazed over.

“My party,” Blake offers, far too quickly. “I want you to come—Ruby too.”

Lilac searches her face for hesitation and Blake knows it’s written in every tight crease, every brief twitch at the corner of her mouth that’s holding prisoner a swarm of butterflies. When she steps away Blake feels something tear; she reaches out to keep Yang close by the sleeves.

Yang gives her the reprieve of tugging on wool but doesn’t allow it for long. “You’re deflecting.”

“I’m deflecting,” she admits, not looking up from where her thumb has found a loose thread. “I don’t know how to say what I want to say, but I know that I want to say it.”

Somehow, Yang seems to understand. The crease in her brow goes lax.

“Should I bring anything?” Yang takes her by the wrists, holds their hands between them. Blake follows the movement, entranced. “To the party?”

She shakes her head in tangent to her response. “No, just you and your sister.”

The streets fade into the growing darkness when Blake chances a look up at the girl standing before her. She feels rather than sees Yang lift her wrist to her lips, press a kiss where Blake’s pulse strikes at her skin, thrumming with pressure that burns. Her veins steal the warmth and it spreads, finding her cheeks and making home there—she curls her fingers tight into a fist to keep from stroking them through Yang’s hair, bringing her close. It’s too cold the moment Yang’s lips leave her skin; it’s frigid when she finally steps away.

“I’ll see you soon,” Yang says, walks backward down the sidewalk, keeps Blake’s eyes until she turns fully around, tosses a wink over her shoulder before taking the corner, finally out of view.

“Yeah,” says Blake, dumbly, to no one but herself.

(Inside, with her back against the door, she smacks her forehead with the heel of her palm, drags it down her face.

“ _Just you and your sister_ ,” she mocks herself, sinking further back into the wood. “Stupid.”)

 

-

 

She cleans for what feels like a week straight; Sun has to physically restrain her from scrubbing the tile grout with a toothbrush.

Usually, Weiss was the one to host their pre-holiday holiday party, even though her smaller accommodations are near to bursting at the seams. Over the years after graduation, thenumbert of people who attended dwindled down to a handful but inviting three new people was enough to hand over the hosting duties to Blake, who.

 _Really_ has never done this before.

Aside from having a few friends over (who could mostly fend for themselves, knowing where Blake and Sun keep everything), Blake has never had to _entertain_. Coming over to her apartment meant watching documentaries or trying to talk over Sun and Neptune playing whatever game they were infatuated with for the week. Her parents had been over a few times—not many, considering that her father had never fully warmed up to Sun like her mother had—and the kitchen was often commandeered. There had always been a two-guest maximum for their place, and Sun and Blake liked the arrangement just fine.

Now, not only had Blake invited two of her coworkers on a whim—Ilia was a given, but Velvet’s ears had pricked, unintentionally eavesdropping—but Weiss had extended the invitation to her sister; Blake didn’t have much of a problem with it, other than the fact that the two of them butted heads and never quite agreed on how Weiss handled renouncing her inheritance (and partially, she agreed knowing full well her Faunus heritage unnerved Winter, and Blake found it amusing to watch her internal struggle). Velvet asked for a plus one, Winter (if she even answered Weiss’s numerous voicemails) would no doubt scour her apartment in search of blemishes, and Ilia would nervously drink beer in a corner, trying to escape from Sun’s incessant badgering.

Those people—she could handle them.

But, truthfully, Yang was the only person she was desperate to impress.

She figured Ruby would be happy with, quite literally, anything, and doubted that she would spare a passing glance at one of Blake’s books off-kilter on the shelf. Yang was probably much the same, seemingly not one to be nit-picky, but Blake didn’t want Yang to think she didn’t have her shit together.

It had gotten to the point where she nearly irons her bedsheets before Sun implemented and intervention; he even called her mom.

“Honey,” Kali’s voice is somewhat soothing, except for the fact that it distracts her from her fifth time washing the dishes. “You need to take a breath.”

“I’ve never done this before,” Blake responds. Her hair has nearly fallen completely out of her ponytail, a mass of dark hair strung over her shoulders. She stares down at a fingerprint on a stemless wine glass—how long has this been there? She scrubs it anyway.

“I promise you, you’re making a bigger deal out of it than it needs to be.” She can hear the kettle through her speaker, her mother searching the cabinets for a mug. “These are your friends. They know who you are.” Her mouth quirks at the corner. “They will also know that your obsessive cleaning has to be for a reason.”

Blake frowns. “No, they won’t.”

“Did you invite Yang?”

“…Yes?”

“Oh, dear,” her mother has a fond expression, like she wishes she could pat Blake on the head, between her ears, where she knows it would annoy her the most. “They’ll know why.”

There’s really no point in denying it. “I just…”

Her mother smiles. “I know.”

“I feel like it’ll be weird,” Blake returns the smile, though it’s not quite as full. “Having her in my house.”

“Would you rather her not be?”

“I want her here,” Blake says, definitive, leaving no room for doubt. “Really, I do.”

Her mother’s smile dips. “I sense a ‘but’.”

Blake takes a steadying breath, puts down her dishrag, exhales through her nose. As she speaks, she undoes the tie holding her hair up and gathers the mass, fixing the mess. “We went on a date last week, and I…” After tying it back, she runs a hand down her face. “Please, don’t tell dad.”

Her mother nods but stays silent.

“We went to a bunch of open houses. Mostly to mooch off the free food,” it startles her, how quickly her chest warms. “But it was… one of the best nights I’ve had in a really long time.

“When we got to the last house—God, it was ugly. And I mean, like, a-box-of-crayons-puked-on-it ugly. But we were in the kitchen, and Yang was,” she breaks to huff out a laugh, talks through it, “Stuffing her face. And I looked at her and…” She grips her countertop and looks away from her phone. “I felt… an overwhelming _something_.”

Her mother’s eyes flick across her face, delayed by the connection. “Something?”

Blake nods, wets her lips. “Like it could be my future.”

And it’s like something clicks—her mother’s face softens, calms; she wonders if this is familiar to her, if she saw Blake’s father and the world opened up around her, bloomed like spring petals.

“I never felt that with—” she bites the inside of her cheek, processes. “With Adam.”

There’s a quick change to her mother’s expression. “Honey—”

“But I think there’s something real here for me, mom.” Heat builds behind her eyes; tears build, but they don’t fall. “But what if I mess it up?”

It’s as if it all floods over. Her mother smiles and it’s smooth, a tender curve to it that Blake doesn’t think she’s seen before.

She remembers the day her parents met Adam. Well, Adam as her _boyfriend_ , not as the outspoken project manager whose opinions were beginning to grate on her father. Outwardly, they had not spoken ill of him, more so happy that their daughter had found a partner she was willing to put in the work with—even if the difference in their age left a sour taste in her mother’s mouth.

After the first year, the tight-lipped smiles lackluster in approval had just begun warm to something recognizable as acceptance when they found the first bruise on her wrist. As the collection grew, manifesting noticeably, she couldn’t hide her skin—there was no disguising the way they scarred her like property. Drunken screams turned aggressive as he cast his shadow on her, and it wasn’t until the rusted knife sunk through her skin that the excuses stopped. Blood pooling under her fingers, spilling through creases. There was no remorse in his eyes. Every day, she regrets going back, even if it was just to play pretend until she found her own way out.

To see her mother embracing this, to see the way her eyes lit up at the mention of Yang, attune to the name the more and more Blake spoke it, to see her patience as Blake struggled through laying her feelings in the open, to see her welcoming Yang with open arms without even having _met_ her—

“You won’t,” her mother says and it’s all that Blake can think to believe in.

Trust squares her mother’s shoulders and Blake intends to breed her own.

She covers her mouth with her hand, pulls her lips out as she drags it away. The sigh sits heavy, resigned, as she releases it, propping herself against the sink. “I should tell her how I feel.”

And Kali smiles, rests her cheek on her knuckles and allows the color in her daughter’s cheeks bring forth her own calming happiness. “I think that would be a very good idea.”

 

-

 

The intercom buzzes with a singeing crack through the music, though it doesn’t seem to bother her friends at all. Blake’s heart leaps nearly as fast as she does to answer it, pressing down to answer.

“Hello?” She asks, as if the tightness in her chest did not already know.

Yang’s voice croons through the old speaker like a broken melody, but the tone is saccharine sweet. “I have a delivery for Miss Belladonna?”

A glossy snicker follows, higher in pitch.

Blake pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, biting down on a smile; she ignores the tut Weiss whittles, disdain barely concealed on high cheekbones.

She tries not to laugh as she presses down on the button. “You can leave it in the mail room, thanks.”

The snicker lends itself to something sweeter, bubbly and light. It precedes a clearing throat, much deeper in tone than what she had briefly caught wind of.

“I’m afraid I’ll need a signature for this one.”

Blake hums, weighs her words on her tongue, taps her chin with her index finger—Yang can’t see it, but it adds to the dramatism of it, a theatrical and sort of play that breaks reality down to finites and exclusives. “I suppose I’ll have to let you in.”

“Well, that would most kind of—“

“ _Blakepleaseit’sreallycold_ —“

“Ruby!”

“Okay,” Blake laughs, buzzes them in. Her fingers twitch where she fiddles with them against her chest, prodding small nicks with newly painted nails.

“Why does your face look like that?” Weiss knows—she’s not stupid, nor is she deaf (or blind). For the impossibly long time they’ve known each other, Weiss has more than picked up on her quirks, practically able to reconstruct them almost down to the way Blake flutters her lashes. She knows the meaning behind all her ticks: the crease in her brows; a downward twitch of her mouth; ears pinned to her head, slightly cocked. Blake was not an open book, by any record; Weiss had always been a good student.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Blake says, rocking forward on her feet. The anticipation builds in her torso as a tight knot, pressure unfurling as the moments pass. Yang being on the other side of the door was enough to rattle her nerves—she tried her best not to scratch off her nail polish.

The knock echoes loud inside her chest.

Taking a beat, she smooths her hands over the front of her dress and looks through the peephole, just to keep up appearances; Weiss rolls her eyes, sigh full of affection.

A slab of glittering silver greets her through the fish-eye.

“Blake!” Ruby chimes on the other side of the door. “Let me in!”

A laugh crops up behind her. “Me too, please,” Yang says—as if Blake would have forgotten.

She tries her best to push through the tremble in her hand, but her grip on the doorknob is slack, needing more than one deft wiggle to open it. Ruby practically barrels her way in and nearly topples Blake over in a hug, throwing her arms around her neck. She steps back to keep her balance and is a bit more hesitant to return the gesture, but cupping Ruby’s shoulders comes with an odd sort of ease that Blake imagines must be attuned to having a sibling.

“Yang said that you didn’t have any allergies,” Ruby smiles when they break apart, though still keeps a grip on Blake’s upper arms. “And even though you said _not_ to bring anything, I couldn’t come empty handed.” She waves Yang over with a desperate sort of urgency, and Blake perks at the sound of boots stepping over the threshold, cheeks already warm to curl over a smile.

Shrugging off her jacket, Yang steps fully onto the patterned rug just inside her door, handing over a lacquered box to her sister. A long, beige duster hugs her shoulders, bunching up around her elbows. Her shirt is plain—white with no frills—but it fits her form well, tucked in at the front of her jeans that are cuffed over her boots. A deep purple scarf drapes over her collar like royalty. She brushes away the last remnants of snow clinging to her hair and flashes Blake a smile that nearly blinds her.

“Hey,” it’s too soft for a greeting. Blake’s hooked on the sound of her voice.

“Hello,” she says back, nearly out of breath. There’s too much space—a chasm from where she stands and where she wants to be. Her arms reach out, pulling Yang against her as they loop around her neck, hold firm. Yang’s hands splay across her back and she breathes as though for the first time all night.

(Weiss rolls her eyes, downs the rest of her wine).

“You look beautiful.” It slips out before she can stop it, but she has no intention of backtracking. Instead, she lets her cheeks fill with a dull-burning pink, toys with the barely frayed end of Yang’s scarf, well-worn and comfortable.

Yang rolls her eyes, but Blake can see the freckles dissolve against her glowing blush. “Oh, this old thing?” She steps just out of reach, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her duster to pull it open, looking down at herself. Blake’s smile grows when their eyes meet once more, charmed by the shyness Yang shows as she wraps the knit tight across her chest. “It’s nothing compared to you.”

Blake licks her lips, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and peers down at herself. In reality, Sun’s incessant nagging meant that she settled for comfort over flare, though that didn’t mean she hadn’t put an exhausting amount of effort into what she chose. Simplicity had been the intent, cable knit turtleneck tucked into the front of a pair of jeans. The heels of her boots nearly level her with Yang, her eyes only a smidge above her own.

“ _Oh, this old thing?_ ” She echoes, tries to copy Yang’s inflections, and it’s enough to earn her a quiet chuckle meant only for her.

It’s more than enough.

 

-

 

Twenty minutes of nothing but the onslaught of questions was taking quite the toll on Blake. She should have known better, really—Sun is laying them down faster than Yang can respond, and, to her credit, she answers as many as she can, but—Blake thinks he’ll choke on his tongue if he doesn’t slow down.

“You build arms?”

“And legs. Hands, shoulders, knees _and_ toes.”

“What about like, stomachs or something?”

“Like, a torso? I think they’d be missing quite a few organs.”

“Could you build organs, too?”

“Oh, I bet I probably could.”

Blake swears the last time she’s seen Sun’s jaw hang so slack had been that time they had seen a real-life banana tree on their trip to the botanical gardens. His moon eyes must be worse than her own.

“Blake,” he says, voice dripping in wonder. “She could build a whole _person_.”

The fact that Yang laughs rather than corrects him is the disruption Blake needs to drag Yang out of the kitchen.

Velvet’s partner practically commands the attention of the room the rest of the night, and more than once does Blake find herself snared into her stories, each one swelling in grandeur as she transitions from one to the other, effortless. How one person can find endless good fortune was beyond Blake, but she was not one to count her blessings short; watching Yang fall prey to Coco’s emphatic performance seemed like it may be one.

Neither Blake nor Sun had suggested the night be anything like a potluck, but that hadn't stopped their guests bringing treats along with them—even the lovingly sugared _fruit tarts_ from Velvet and Coco were cool (Blake eats two whole, splits one with Yang who then eats another on her own). Weiss prepared the wine like she’s always done, a recipe she snuck from her butler when she was still considered a Schnee. Neptune brings banana cream pie and Sun nearly kissed him. Ilia had been the only one that showed up empty-handed, just the way Blake had intended. The tiny mooncakes she and Sun had slaved over had been _almost_ glossed over—thank goodness for Ruby.

She finally wrangles Yang from the midst of another tale—“ _He destroyed my favorite clothing store. I nearly killed him_.”—slides her hand against Yang’s palm until she intertwines their fingers, squeezing tight enough to get her attention. Yang turns to her in a daze but finds Blake smile trained on her and is swept away.

“Hey,” Yang leans into her, chest bumping Blake’s shoulder. Her mug is absent of steam, her drink having long gone cold. She sips from it, though, surprisingly unbothered. Blake wrinkles her nose.

Pushing through, Blake shakes her head and tugs on Yang’s hand, urging her to bend down.

“Follow me.”

Yang nods before pulling back, expression already loose. “Is everything okay?”

Blake nods back, much more emphatically—it kind of hurts. She tries for a smile. “Yes, of course.”

Yang doesn’t exactly frown, but it’s not far off. “I feel like I’m in trouble.”

With a half laugh, Blake says, “I promise you’re not.”

Eyeing her a moment longer, Yang decides she’s not being lied to and holds Blake’s hand fully, sturdy in her grasp. “Lead the way.”

With the living room crowded, it’s easy to slip through the kitchen down the hall; it’s unlikely that no one will notice they’ve gone missing, but Blake thinks that it should be enough time for it all to fall into place.

She tries turning it into somewhat of a mini-tour, though it’s hardly anything interesting—“And here’s the bathroom—” “Blake, you showed me this when I got here.”—more as a way to calm her nerves than much else. The door to her bedroom is still shut, thankfully, but pushing it open is almost as difficult as moving a boulder. There’s a definitive over the threshold—a line to cross, _will she_ , _won’t she_ , _she will_ —and Blake isn’t exactly sure of her end goal when Yang steps inside behind her.

Leaving the door open behind them is probably for the best.

Yang doesn’t question it, doesn’t question her, allows for Blake to lead and waiting to fall in step.

It emboldens her. “You’re really special to me.”

The smirk sits crooked on Yang’s face. Pretty pink lips part and there’s a chip in Yang’s front tooth she hadn’t noticed before. “Is this your present to me?”

“What?” Blake blinks through her own daze, clicks her tongue. “Oh. No, I—” her ears flatten against her head, turning her head to the side as she squeezes her palms together. “I didn’t actually… get you anything. I’m sorry.”

Crooked turns light and full. “Still feels like you’re giving me a gift.”

Breaking away, Yang takes in the room around her, the glittering lights shaped like small lanterns, the stars stuck to her ceiling, the bookshelf stuffed so full of novels it could overflow. Yang looks around as though she’s taking stock, memorizing, writing something only for herself. Blake has never seen someone so beautiful.

It warms her from her belly, sprouting with purpose through her chest, shoulders, fingers. It could be the mulled wine, but she knows better, knows what this feeling is, knows how long it’s been since she’s felt it. Yang stands in her room, trailing fingers against the sleek edges of Blake’s dresser, careful not to disturb the trinkets cluttering the surface. Her movements feel practiced, as if knowing where she’s allowed to touch without Blake’s permission. Knowing her too well, almost, for someone who’s existed for her for such a short amount of time.

Yang’s thumb catches something as she skims, and Blake knows before she even picks it up—it’s a polaroid of she and Weiss after the fencing championship: Blake has their cheeks squished together, smiling bright at the camera while Weiss, a bit more stoic, has only the barest hint of curling at her cheeks; a blue-sashed gold medal hangs around Weiss’s neck, Blake clutching it between them. The picture itself sits beside a sleek frame, waiting to be secured.

Yang traces around the film, careful not to put too much pressure.

The dots are close enough to connect. “Is this your gift to Weiss?”

Red pools in Blake’s cheeks as she toes forward, feeling as though she’s intruding. “Yeah,” her smile is soft, crooked. “She says she’s not into sentimentality, but she always stares at this one when she stays the night.”

A laugh, fond, lifts Yang’s chest as she taps once more on the edge of the film. “Maybe you can help me with something like this. I have some pictures of Summer I’d like to give to Ruby that I think would look better framed.”

There are signs that warm the longer she stares, the longer she watches Yang trace the smaller collections of her life with more interest than Blake has for herself. A yearning settles in Yang’s shoulders and Blake thinks she can see the desire for more—to know more, feel more. _Be_ more, even.

Correcting herself—she’s sure of what she sees; sure of what she sees and what she aches for on her own accord.

 “Yang,” she says, and it’s like breaking through glass.

The methodical way Yang turns to her—she’s been waiting for this. Giving, kind, patient— _patient_ , falling in together instead of rushing forward, content with the sounds of their footsteps guiding them in tandem. It’s not something Blake’s ever listened for. Now it’s all she hears.

There’s power in the way squares herself, and it certainly draws Yang in, her eyes tracing the curve of Blake’s cheek finding their way to prideful gold. Blake’s left ear twitches and Yang reaches for her hip before Blake is even near.

It’s the closest they’ve ever been—less so physically, but in the way she has trouble distinguishing one heartbeat from another; in whether Yang would know that to breathe near her _hurts_ ; in the ever-growing likelihood that Blake is falling in love with her.

Her hands pause as they come to rest between their chests, Blake stilling in her reach. But Yang tilts her head and Blake has to—needs to touch her. Her fingers barely cup Yang’s cheeks and still, still—

Blake takes her by the jaw and kisses her.

There’s an understanding of sparks somewhere that she feels she should start to acknowledge. It’s coming undone and then coming back together, settling in her chest like a home. Yang presses _more_ against her mouth and Blake has a hand on Yang’s neck, in her hair. Pulling away only winds them tighter in red when Blake has her again, the flash of a pink tongue desperate for her name. Yang’s fingers don’t dig; bruises won’t remain when they fall away.

The square of Yang’s jaw stands proud when Blake swipes her thumb along the ledge, blonde curls draped over the rest of her hand. Yang licks into her mouth and months blur as minutes, as seconds, as moments fleeting that build to so much more.

When they part, they don’t stray far. Yang hovers just above her, breath on Blake’s mouth. Blake bites her bottom lip, settling; their noses shy an inch from the other. Even harder is breaking free, putting enough distance between their chests to at least meet each other’s eyes. Blake has never put so much effort into keeping her ears still.

Blinking her eyes open, Blake finds her; Yang’s grin is so bright it may as well be blinding.

Blake can’t look away.

She needs her closer. She still has her hand in Yang’s hair and it’s as though she barely applies pressure and Yang tilts by her bidding. Their foreheads bump and it should hurt—but it’s drowned out by the burst of laughter shared in the space they own with each other.

 

-

 

Weiss pretends not to like her. That’s how Blake knows she does.

There are curious eyes on them the rest of the night, especially after Blake decides she’s tired of hiding. Ice trails them like a storm, distrusting despite knowing what she does. She’s never far, keeping herself just out of reach.

She’s tight-lipped when the two sisters are gathering their things, Blake close by. Blake can feel Weiss’s stare that’s not even trained on her, and when she turns to look her face is stone, unbelievably still, impassive neutrality almost unnerving. Ruby has one arm through her jacket before she straightens like a taut band, springing into the kitchen wrangling on a boot. “Wait, wait! I need to make my rounds!”

Weiss barely pays the girl any mind. She steps up, keeps a bit of distance between them, petite in the presence of Yang who could easily dwarf her. Yang isn’t easily caught off-guard; the arch of her brow when she finds Weiss impatient at her side seems almost amused, taking the size-up in stride. Quick eyes catch Blake, and there’s a question Weiss needs to know.

And when Blake responds with the fondest of smiles, Weiss understands.

Weiss is nothing but pleasantly polite, offering her hand out to Yang as though the room wasn’t still wrought with tension; Yang doesn’t miss a beat and takes Weiss’s hand with a bit more gusto than Weiss is used to.

“Yang,” Weiss starts, masking her voice with too sweet honey. “It was lovely to get to meet you. Though,” she looked pointedly to Blake who accepts it plainly. “I was beginning to wonder if you were a figment of Blake’s imagination.”

Yang’s eyes are calm when she levels with Weiss’s stare. Blake watches her face settle as though something’s come into place. Weiss stills herself not to falter, though the quick narrowing of her eyes threatens to give her away.

“I heard you’re an engineer?” Weiss crosses her arms over her chest, on the defensive. “That’s interesting.”

Yang takes the bait and hands it back. “How so?”

Weiss certainly hadn’t been expecting the turnaround.

But Yang only tilts her head, smile still growing. “You’re adorable,” she says, and Weiss is furiously _indignant_ , already building tension in her fists. A twitch to her mouth, painfully wistful, and then, “I had a friend who would have really liked you.”

They can steal a few more moments to themselves after Weiss backs down, Ruby making her rounds through the rest of the apartment hugging everyone goodbye, well wishes crammed into each one. Blake gets her attention by swaying forward into Yang, close to see the rise of her chest stutter. She gathers as much as she can of Yang’s sweater between her fists, toying with the button by her thumb.

A kiss is pressed above her left brow and Blake resigns.

“I’m,” Blake starts, hadn’t even realized she’d be taking it here. “I’m sorry it took me so long. To get there.”

Yang shrugs—she knows how much it mattered that Blake set her own tone. Yang lifts her hand and swipes her thumb over Blake’s cheek; Blake leans into her hand. “I would have kept waiting even if you hadn’t tonight.”

It burns in a way she can’t place. “What if it was never?”

There’s a challenge in the crook of her brow. “I’d wait anyway.”

She laughs—laughs until it’s no longer quiet, until it finally brings Yang along with her, drifting with the force of it; everyone is polite enough to, at the very least, feign privacy—other than Weiss, of course, who couldn’t be boring a stare harder into the side of Yang’s head if she tried. Like she wanted to set her on fire.

(Not, _totally_ ablaze. Maybe just a kindling).

When the laughter finally dies down into muted giggles, translated mostly through the way Blake looks at her from under her lashes, the lines that crease Yang’s cheeks as she grins wide, almost prideful, she wills her hands not to wander. Everywhere that Yang isn’t touching her is a curse, a punishment against something forsaken in her past, possibly, impeding her from being able to mold the sun in her hands. It’s too much to be near her now that Blake knows how her mouth tastes, the ways in which she could cradle Blake against her chest, run her fingers through her hair. Where Yang’s hand rest on her body doesn’t burn nearly as hot as the places they neglect.

Yang lifts one of Blake’s arms to push at her palm, swaying their clasped hands together between them. “Thank you for inviting me,” she says, chest heavy with her exhale.

Blake smiles. “As if you weren’t the person I asked.”

“Wow,” Yang quips. “You really do like me.”

The haughty way in which she huffs out _shut up_ is lost in the press of their mouths, and Blake takes what could have belonged to her weeks ago.

Her thundering pulse drowns the sound of Weiss shrieking; a plucky girl shining in red crashing against white, a blur of pink, and Weiss has to physically wrangle Ruby from off her shoulders.

“Wha—get _off_ of me!”

“I’ll miss you so much!”

“I’ve known you all of _thirty seconds_!”

(Jury’s still out on Ruby, though).

 

-

 

**Yang**

i can’t wait to see you again

 

And Blake responds appropriately.

 

**Me**

Shut up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ye'all of little faith!
> 
> title is from sunflower by rex orange county
> 
> clam fam don't interact
> 
> edit: thank u erin twelveclara for post-editing this, u may interact


	8. and i wondered if i could come home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It comes to her as if it were a thought she’s had more than once before to find her place where Yang could reach, could hold Blake to her chest, against her soul and have their bodies speak for themselves: I’m yours and you’re mine—maybe it was always meant to be this way. She holds out her hand and Yang takes it, though not without a silly quirk of her mouth, allowing Blake to pull them to the mattress, under the sheets softer than silken robes, softer than the palm that curls against her own. Yang rests on her elbow and Blake comes closer, falls into the embrace of Yang’s arm loose over her hips—the escape she knew Blake would never ask for, would never question.
> 
> Blake rests her hand on Yang’s chest, fingers on her collar, and feels her heart beat.
> 
> And beat.
> 
> And beat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we out here poppin bottles that i've gotten off my ass finally lmao. im literally god awful
> 
> thank you for your patience !!! i’ve had a crazy ass last few months lmao and didn’t have much time to write between finals/personal stuff, but im so happy to be back into writing :^) missed u freaks
> 
> im going to try and get back to a more scheduled posting for the rest of this fic, and i have plenty more in the works!
> 
> anyhow!
> 
> lov u
> 
> take this junk

If put to the test, Yang could be a carbon copy of her father.

Taiyang—“ _Blake, please. All my friends call me Tai_ ,”—was as boisterous as he was genuine, finding an equal amount of ways to show his honest curiosity about her work and showing off the pie he had baked all on his own. Dutch apple with a salted caramel glaze; a recipe left to him by his late wife.

His shaggy hair held in the long days he spends in the sun, bleached with streaks lighter than others. Both of his daughters shared his nose, his lopsided smile, the way his eyes shone in the sweep of his laughter. Where they differed in stature was obvious: Yang nearly level with him, though a bit more slender; Ruby, bless her heart, could barely rest her head on either one of their shoulders.

She saw Yang in his mannerisms, the emphasis on sentences with waving arms, a flick to his wrist, shrugging his shoulders. Their inflections rose and fell in the similar way that parades march in lines, in the way a gentle breeze follow one after the other.

She had expected Tai to share the same rings of lilac, but it reminded her more of the coastlines of Menagerie, the rolling waves of high-tide. It’s the first time in a long while she’s seen such a blue that hasn’t gripped her veins in ice.

Yang’s more or less exasperated—Blake can hear the commotion going on in the background, Ruby squabbling over tug-of-war with their dog, Tai clambering around in the cupboards for nutmeg, the dull chime of holiday music. There are hand-cut snowflakes taped to the paneling behind her, strung together with twine. Tinsel curls through the rungs on Yang’s chair, over the back of it, hangs off the sides.

“ _I’m sorry there’s so much commotion_ ,” Yang says, her face a bit blurry on Blake’s screen. “ _My dad would burn the house down without supervision. Otherwise_ ,” she rolls her eyes. Blake smiles, tucks her cheek into her palm. “ _I’d have some privacy_.”

There’s intent behind the word, eyes tight, looking away from her screen. There’s some sort of sputtering—Ruby with her tongue out, most likely—and a sheepish laugh a bit far off.

“ _You’re the one who took your headphones out, firecracker_ ,” comes Tai’s voice, rising in pitch as he makes his way over to his daughter. He leans over Yang’s chair to flash Blake a smile; there’s flour on the front of his shirt, his chin. “ _How’s your day been, kiddo?_ ” He asks Blake, drying his hands on the towel tucked into the string of his apron. “ _How are your parents?_ ”

“ _Dad—_ ”

“ _What? I’m just being friendly!_ ”

Blake laughs, cheeks warm and smile quaint. “I’m well. And so are they, thank you,” she says. “My dad has been in the kitchen the last two days, it feels like.” She tilts her glasses up off her nose and rubs the sleep out of her eyes. “I don’t know how he’s still going. Decorating with my mom for a few hours zapped all of my energy.”

“ _It must be nice to decorate with your mom_ ,” Tai says, deliberate as he looks down at his daughter, clapping his hand onto her shoulder. “ _Spending time with the person who gave you life. Enjoying the company of your parents_.” His sigh is dramatic, long and drawn out as he jostles Yang’s shoulder. “ _At least I have one other daughter who loves me_.”

Yang flicks her eyes up at him but doesn’t stay long. “ _At least I don’t wear Crocs._ ”

He shrugs, smile crooked on his mouth, shimmying in his shoes. “ _I digress_ ,” he turns back to the computer, sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck. “ _Blake, I hate to do this to you, but I need to borrow your girlfriend to help make sure I don’t burn these cookies_.”

Yang shoots up from her seat, eyes wide like saucers. “ _Dad!_ ”

A stutter trips against her thrumming pulse, skin alight in blooming pink, spanning the entirety of her.

It’s the first time it’s been spoken between them—not even by either of them—and the way it settles over like a comfort, a peace she’s only truly beginning to understand beats in steady, speedy tandem with the blush that creeps up Yang’s neck, her cheeks. The world doesn’t slow, but rather stays in motion, as if something that has always been, as if something that was meant to be.

Before it stretches too long, Blake cuts through the static. “It’s fine, sir.” Blake doesn’t bother to hide the way her smile claims her face, settles in the creases around her eyes and the lines against her mouth, teeth scrapping against her bottom lip. “I think I’ll manage without her.”

A blurry Tai wags a finger at her, the other hand on his hip. Yang has her face, red and burning, shoved into her palms.

“ _If you call me sir one more time, Blake_ ,” his voice shakes, the sternness an odd placement on his words. “ _I’ll take away my daughter’s internet privileges_.”

Yang looks as though she wants to be buried alive.

“Understood,” Blake nods, biting down on her smile. Satisfied, Tai gives her a wave, pats Yang on the shoulder with just enough oomph to knock her forward, her arms catching herself on the table.

Somethings clatters to the ground and she sees Yang shoot upright in her chair, pushing up from the table to crane her neck to find the source. “ _Oh, my—_ ” she sighs, plopping down. “ _Okay, I actually do have to go. My dad just_ ,” she pinches the bridge of her nose, shoulders lift and heave. “ _Knocked over an entire cooling rack_.” She drops her hand, chagrin present—sharp to the point where Blake has to bite down on her tongue, force the corners of her mouth to still.

“Were there—”

“ _Cookies on it?_ ” Yang sighs once more. “ _Yes._ ”

And it’s as though the present fade and it’s the two of them, however grainy they may come across. Yang smiles and Blake’s the mirror image, toothy and wide and there’s no bitterness to swallow, no poison to find. Blake reaches out—tries her best to hide the movement—and touches her thumb against the image of Yang’s elbow just at the bottom of the screen.

She wishes there could be more—wish _they_ could be—here and now.

Instead: “ _I’ll text you?_ ” Yang asks.

Blake says, “Like I’d ever turn you down,” and as Yang gives her a little wave, the call ends with a chime and Blake is suddenly faced with herself, the creases at the edge of her eyes, her smile, the way it brings forward a flutter that she’s felt day after day, staring into lilac no matter the distance.

So, Blake picks up her phone.

And finds better footing.

 

**Me**

Hey.

Be my stupid girlfriend.

**Yang**

oh baby

i’ve already been yours

 

\--

 

Yang’s childhood bedroom is both nothing and everything that she expected.

Her full-sized bed is pushed up against the wall, curtains drawn for sunlight to stream down onto her pillow cases (which have little dancing dogs on them, which—it’s the cutest thing Blake’s ever seen). The walls are painted not-quite yellow—obviously decided by the oversight of Yang’s father—but are slathered in a beige that could be mistaken as such, if Blake were to squint.

There isn’t much in the way of decorations: a poster from a punk band Blake remembers herself enjoying when she was in high school taped above a desk, chipped and worn at the corners in a show of its age; a corkboard between the window above her bed and another on the same wall, scarce aside for a calendar dated by nearly half a decade, magazine clippings beside movie and concert tickets; and on her night sits a worn, rusted compass and two framed pictures, one of Yang and Ruby with ice cream smeared over their faces, their dog lapping at their chins, and another that faces away from her bed, towards the rest of the empty room. It’s four people, and Blake recognizes Tai amongst them. The other three—two of them similar in both stature and features, one with silver eyes brighter than the sun shining behind them all—she isn’t familiar with. One day, she reconciles with herself, she’ll gather the courage to ask Yang who they are.

But for now.

Now, Yang lounges against her pillows, her bright, yellow duvet (unsurprising) tucked around her chest, hair tossed into a sloppy bun, strands falling loose against the sheets, a shirt from her high school track team baggy over her shoulders. She covers her mouth with the back of her hand through a yawn, wide enough that Blake swears Yang’s pulled some sort of muscle.

“Baby,” Blake says, testing the waters, present to the flutter that her heart gives against her ribs, the gentle bat of wings. “If you’re tired, you should go to sleep.”

Yang groans, laden with sleep; rubbing at her eyes doesn’t help her case, much. “ _I feel like it’s too early to go to bed._ ”

Blake quirks a brow but turns her attention back to her nails. She dips the brush back into the bottle and strokes black over her nails like night encroaching on the sky.

Blake shrugs, tampers the smirk that threatens to pull at her mouth. “Time is an illusion.”

Yang laughs, soft. “ _Is it, now?_ ”

“Oh, absolutely. Haven’t you heard?” Capping the polish to adjust herself, Blake pulls her laptop onto her thighs. “I’m always right.”

Yang pulls a face, but Blake sees the mirth behind it. “ _Sweetheart, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but that’s the worst lie you’ve ever told me_.” The freckles along the bridge of her nose stretch with her smile. “ _Maybe the worst one you’ve ever told, period. Full stop._ ”

“I don’t know,” Blake says, fixing the polish she’s accidentally brushed onto her cuticles with a cotton ball. “Sun usually falls for it.”

“ _He parties too much to have more than, like, three braincells._ ”

Blake laughs, unable to stop herself. “I think you might be right.”

A hearty chuckle follows, though it hangs on the precipice of a breath Yang’s already let go. Blake adjusts her glasses on her nose, still nervous to be barefaced in the company of something else.

Especially her very _hot_ , very _beautiful_ , very _charming_ girlfriend.

Her _girlfriend_ -girlfriend.

Blake’s never felt a word tug so hard on her chest.

But there’s a slant to Yang’s mouth when Blake looks back up from her nails. Her mouth mimics the gesture on its own accord. “Is something wrong?”

Yang breathes like she’s parting mountains, the effort straining in the seconds that pass. “ _I want to ask you something_.”

What settles in Blake’s stomach feels like lead, heavy and weighing her down. She adjusts herself against her headboard, fearing the worst. Her attention falls back to her nails. “Yeah?”

“ _Well, it—_ ” A pause. “ _I-it’s less of a question, but. Um_.” Yang drags a hand over her face; chest heavy as she takes care with her words. “ _When you get back, my friends would like to meet you_.”

Blake’s mid-stroke with her nail polish; she paints black over the tip of her finger. “What?”

It’s blurry, but she can still make out the pink blooming in Yang’s cheeks, eyes cast down as she tugs her duvet closer to her chin, the tilt of the camera hiding more of her face. “ _They, like. I don’t know_.” There’s a crack between the syllables. “ _They jokingly said that they think I’ve been making you up this whole time_. _But_ ,” the break of laughter doesn’t quite fit within the smile that barely exists on her mouth. “ _I’m starting to think they might believe otherwise_.”

It doesn’t scare her—not exactly. If anything, Blake’s body reacts before she’s realized so herself, a shock that spreads down to her fingers and warms her from the base of her spine and outwards. There were steps they were taking fasting than Blake had expected: meeting Yang’s father, though not formally; being thought of by people as _Yang’s girlfriend_ instead of just _Blake_ ; being something more—not just to herself, but to someone else, carrying a heart that was not her own but that belonged to her, nonetheless.

It feels easier than letting go when she speaks up again. “Okay.”

Blinking, Yang jerks her head forward, eyes frantic in a nervous search over Blake’s face. “ _Wait, really?_ ”

Blake worries on her bottom lip, though it’s not without a smile. “I’d love to.”

Yang’s mouth hangs open and Blake steps in before the silence can stun them both.

“Now,” Blake says, pointing her finger at the screen for emphasis. “I have something to ask _you_.”

Yang’s resounding smile still clings to nervous roots, but it’s brighter than Blake’s ever seen it. “ _Yeah?"_

“This might be a bit too personal, but,” Blake scratches at her wrist, overthinking herself, now. “Is there a reason you don’t celebrate the new year? Like, traditionally?”

The smile on her girlfriend’s face doesn’t fall, nor does it dampen, but it takes on a longing gesture as she’s paused to think. “ _Well, there are a lot of reasons actually._ ” Yang settles back more against her pillows, props her laptop against her thighs as she tilts up her screen. She takes a near choking-bite of pizza and wipes her chin with the back of her hand. Blake tries not to grimace. “ _Mostly it was because my dad just never… did it_.” She shrugs, taking another bite but carries on talking. “ _I never knew my grandparents, and my dad doesn’t talk about them often. Or, ever, really. So, I figured it was just his way of making traditions for himself, in a way_.” She laughs, sauce on the corner of her mouth. “ _Taking the tradition out of traditional, I guess_.”

Blake nods, understanding. “I see.”

“ _And, well_.” Yang looks aside, down and away from the screen, from Blake, teeth worrying on the corner of her lip. “ _I think a lot of it had to do with Summer, too._ ”

And there—it settles heavy in her chest like a stone, the woman who raised Yang gone but still present in every corner of Yang’s childhood home. From FaceTime, as Yang would pass the walls still lined with family portraits and candid photographs of a woman laughing through rose-tinted bangs, and Blake could see the way in which Ruby’s smile was a mirror much clearer than any one that Blake could look into and see her mother, her father. There were hints of it in Yang’s as well, but where she and Summer seemed to align was the way in which they threw their heads back, caution lost to the moment, the world becoming theirs.

Maybe in another life, Blake would do her best to impress her, would do her best to know the woman who brought up a family of generous souls that do for others and take little for themselves. Maybe in another life, Blake would bring the woman flowers in a vase instead of set against a headstone. Maybe in another life, Blake would swap stories, see the heat in Yang’s cheeks spread down her neck, over her ears, sharing in all the ways Yang grown into herself and the person she was today.

Maybe in another life, Blake would have been able to love her, too.

At least she could try out one thing on her own.

“Hey, ask Tai to show me baby pictures of you.”

“ _Over my dead body_.”

“That’s okay,” her smile is high, cheeks warm with the bend of it as she picks her phone up off her beside table. “Ruby will do it for me.”

 

\--

 

**Yang**

xin nian hao!!!

also, you have something coming your way

girlfriend privileges, you know

 

**_Snapchat from sunnylildragon_ **

**Me**

Holy shit.

**Yang**

oh!

and good morning :^)

**_Gambol-shroud took a screenshot!_ **

 

Thumb above the keypad, Blake’s caught in the flash of the hard lines of Yang’s abdomen, the exaggerated flex of her bicep across her chest that she doesn’t register the whip of yellow over the top of her screen, phone lifted from her hand before she can tighten her grip.

“Let’s see here,” Sun says around a dumpling stuffed into his cheek. He holds it high in the air with his tail, jerking it up each time Blake swipes up to reach it. Quirking his brows, he squints at the screen, a smirk tugging against his puffed cheek. “What did you screenshot?”

“Sun!” Ears flat against her head, Blake takes two fingers and jabs them into Sun’s ribs. He hunches over, dropping her phone; it’s almost comedic in the way it tumbles out of her hands over and over until finally hitting the floor, right in front of Ilia’s socked toes.

But it’s Weiss who throws a quip. “I think you dropped something,” she says, smiling to herself, bending over to scoop up Blake’s phone. Not usually the nosy type, but Blake sees the way her eyes narrow—the screen must have not gone dark.

Ilia squints, nose wrinkling as she the two of them scroll up through the log, searching. “What _did_ she send you?”

A click from her phone has her cheeks pooling in red; Weiss laughs to herself, pulls away from Sun as he tries to look over her shoulder, but allows for Ilia to peek. She types with a smirk too wicked and presses send with a flourish, twirling out her wrist and cradling Blake’s phone in her palm as though she were presenting something precious.

“Who sent what?” Her father calls from the kitchen.

“Nothing!” Blake returns, snatching it from Weiss, lips tight in a scowl. “ _What the_ _hell_ ,” she grits out through her teeth. “What did you send _her_?”

Weiss shrugs, reaches over Ilia and steals a dumpling from Sun’s plate with her chopsticks. He whines but doesn’t make to grab it back. She smiles. “Whatever do you mean?”

Something akin to a snarl catches in her throat just as her phone buzzes. She looks down—fingers now clamping down around it like a vice—and—

 

**_sunnylildragon took a screenshot!_ **

****

Blake’s eyes are sharp, deadly as a dagger dragging over Weiss’s face. “I’ll kill you.”

She only grins wider. “No, you won’t.”

(Sun pries for one of the dumplings Weiss scoops onto her own plate but gets pinched in the side harder than what was probably necessary, tail drooping on the ground behind him).

The groan that _is_ necessary, however, is caught against her tongue as her mother strides into the room, a platter of steamed sea bass filling the room with the tang of ginger and soy, cradled against her forearms. Ghira is not far behind her; stacked in his arms are bowls and plates and teacups, a kettle balancing precariously on the top, still whistling from the heat of the stovetop. Blake takes it from the pile and sets it down on a wood trivet just a notch over from the center of the table and the rest of the food. Tableware is set before each of the dining chairs they’ve pulled up, Weiss setting down her plate to help fold the napkins.

The dumplings near the end of the table have taken a significant hit from when they were first brought out to appease Sun’s loud, terribly growling stomach. Blake hadn’t been far off from him, either, having spent the last few the days preparing both the meals and decorations strung about the house.

Orchids set about in the middle of the table are stark and bright against the splash of the dark of her parents’ dining room table, the vase being one that Blake had brought home herself from her last trip to Mistral; small tags with doufang and fu banners hang tight to the orchid stems and the bamboo arrangement around the pink blooms. A small bouquet of peonies Weiss had gifted to their family sits on the kitchen island beside the bowls teetering high with oranges Sun had proudly stacked himself.

(Ghira had gone back and reset them all once Sun had his back turned, and he still hasn’t noticed).

The table is nearly at its capacity with the dishes set about before them, jai placed closer to Weiss’s and Ilia's chairs, noodles between Blake and her mother and the dumplings in reach of Sun. They make room for the bass beside the orchid vase and Kali claps her hands together, a smile bright and proud on her face.

“Oh-kay!” She chimes, sweeping her arms out as to present the food before them. “Let’s get this started!”

 

\--

 

Her fist is only hovering above the door before it swings open, ears perking under the wool of her hat. Rushing out before her is Ruby, half an arm shoved into a puffy red jacket with a PB&J between her teeth, the grape jelly spilling onto the snow laded sidewalk and nearly missing Blake’s boot.

Luckily, as she’s just about to crash them both down onto the concrete, Ruby notices her, reaching up to take the sandwich out of her mouth, eyes bright and dancing.

“Blake!” She shouts, barreling into Blake with such fervor that she takes it like a punch to the gut and, well—there goes her surprise.

Not entirely letting Blake out of her grasp, Ruby backs away far enough to meet her eyes, grin megawatt and beaming. “I didn’t know you were coming over!”

Blake smiles back, a bit timid as she picks up the sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs. “Well, actually, neither does—”

“Ruby, move!” Comes Yang’s voice, shoving her sister out of the way and taking Blake’s cheeks in her hands, mouth crashing down on her.

It startles a noise from Blake, her eyes shooting wide, but her surprise quickly fades; she parts her lips and takes more of Yang, hands reaching to curl over her biceps—

Her _bare_ biceps.

“Jesus, Yang,” Blake pulls away, albeit reluctivity. She bites her lip to keep a sigh from rushing out: taking her in, Yang’s barely dressed—a shiver suppressed just looking at her—shorts low on her hips, though not enough to cover her thighs; the sweatshirt hanging off her shoulders is sleeveless, for God’s sake, cut low and exposing her abdomen to frozen wind. “It’s—”

“ _Shut up_ ,” is what follows, heavy on a breath lost to the wind and Yang’s mouth is on hers once more, bringing Blake against her, swaying together as if the world hadn’t been coming down around them in the pattering of softening snow.

 

\--

 

“You know,” Yang settles close to her on the loveseat, holding her bright yellow throw pillow against her chest. “I’m not really big on surprises.”

Blake props her arm against the top of the cushions, hand cradled against her palm. She watches as Yang gives the pillow a deliberate squeeze and allows it to rest less constricted in her lap. Her smile is warm in a daze, drifting through her lilac eyes like the spring Blake finds herself desperate to wander through. Reaching out, Blake settles her hand against the top of Yang’s over the pillow, gentle where her fingers come to rest. But Yang flips over her palm, fingers slipping under the sleeve of Blake’s sweater to tap against her wrist. A steady thrum. A metronome for Blake’s heart to follow.

“Have I changed your mind about them, yet?” Blake watches the fabric of her sleeve shift as Yang begins tracing the lines of her veins that sprout into the heel of her palm. The simple path she travels doesn’t burn, doesn’t ignite, but allows something bright to grow beneath her skin, humble and strong and lasting.

In response, Yang reaches out and brings Blake close by the back of her neck, lips pressing soft against her mouth, peppering kiss after kiss up her cheeks and over the bridge of her nose as she cradles her fully, taking Blake into her arms. Laughing, Blake falls against her with little guidance, shifting until she’s swung both of her legs over Yang’s lap, knees locked over thighs.

A moment passes and it’s followed by more, and in the quiet Blake can close her eyes, allow herself to simply be held; as they exist beside the other, snow clings to the window panes in distant patters, a sheet lying too soft to be heard by those who weren’t looking, weren’t listening.

A breath that lifts Yang’s chest gives Blake the opportunity to uncurl herself from where she had been tucked against her. The simple intimacy shouldn’t feel as familiar as it does—at the very least, it should be what sends her running, the notion that what follows comes with bruises. But Yang keeps her close, holds her dear like a sanctuary and Blake has to, needs to kiss her, needs to splay her hands over the woman who gives her the room to blossom.

She starts with her cheeks. Yang smiles, crooks her brow, but says nothing as Blake holds her, thumbs sweeping over cheekbones, pressing against the base of her temple. Her descent is gentle, decisive in the path she roams. Yang falls in tune with Blake’s travel, relaxing for Blake to be able explore at her leisure.

Resting on Yang’s collarbones, Blake cups the back of her neck, tugs on the blonde curls that brush against her knuckles and spots the kick of Yang’s pulse at the base of her throat. It quickens as her thumb traces against it, and Blake feels it flutter as if something delicate being kept prisoner.

Lips pressed against it, Blake swears she finally understands all the different ways Yang’s heart beats just for her.

Yang clutches at Blake’s sweater, exposes the base of her spine. The shock builds from there, climbs through her and bleeds into her ribs, her lungs too tight to hold her breath at bay. It rushes out over damp skin, and what tumbles from Yang’s lips has her arching forward, hips rolling to meet what she—what they—what’s needed most, the hard curve of Yang’s thigh, the heat that melts from them both, pooling together in breaths that warm the room around them.

The intimacy, the touch, the knowledge—it’s never felt like this before. It’s been about possession, taking, using, an object under someone else’s weight that stripped her of her own. There had never been moments of pause, only giving forth herself in ways she never intended, all in the manner of needing to please, seeking a reassurance she thought only he could give. Now, she knows.

Now, she feels. Feels the difference, the patience, the forthright understanding that the woman between her thighs allows to be their tether, holding them upright as one.

A flex of Yang’s thigh and it’s a breath caught high in Blake’s throat, treading roads she hadn’t intended to lead them to. It breaks through her idle mouth, having parted to take a moment of recovery but finding nothing of the sort. 

Fingers toy with the button of her jeans and, _yes_. _Yes_ , she wants, needs, to say and feel and do. “ _Yes_ ,” it comes without question, comes with the cant of hips. The pads of Yang’s fingertips are burning, leaving welts below the surface, a tightening in Blake’s belly, building with the deft flick of a wrist that dips under the waistband of her jeans, the lace of her underwear, over the dark thatch of hair and the moan tumbles from her before she can catch herself, Yang’s lips on her throat—

The door flies open and brings with it a chorus of laughter, both familiar and not. Blake slicks her bangs back against the forehead as two distinct sets of footsteps carve a clumsy path up the staircase, the hood of Ruby’s jacket brightening the foyer. Busy rubbing at her cheeks, Blake misses the way Yang rockets forward, making quick work of straightening her top as something dawns on her, recognizing the other bobbing head alongside her sister’s.

“Hey, Penny,” Blake hears Yang say, a slight tremble on the syllable that nearly gets caught in her throat. She spares Blake a glance before flicking her eyes over to her sister, too busy laughing into her friend’s shoulder to notice the odd ways in which Yang’s hair sticks out from her ponytail. “I didn’t think you’d be back tonight, Rubes.”

Sinking farther into the arm of the couch, Blake grabs her glass of wine and drains in one desperate gulp. Her ears flick with the new voice drifting forward, a bit too airy to be Ruby’s. “Well, there was this incident with a magnet—”

(And a bit too cheery for Blake’s liking).

“A wha—actually,” Yang smooths a hand down the front of her chest. “I don’t want to know.”

“So, we just came back home!” Ruby steps forward, brushing snow off of her jacket onto the hardwood floors—Yang sputters, and before she can get a word out Ruby’s looking thoroughly admonished, sprinting to the linen closet and back with a towel before Blake has a chance to blink. The silence presses on, Blake and Penny regarding each other carefully—not unfriendly, but Blake’s not one to easily trust—before Ruby picks up on it. She perks up, actually hops in place with a smile too sweet for Blake to handle. “Blake! This is my friend, Penny!”

Steeling herself, Blake lifts a hand for a meager wave, musters a polite smile. “Hey.”

Penny’s smile is just as bright as Ruby’s; she senses their influences on one another from the gesture alone. “Salutations!”

The two younger girls chatter to themselves as they move into the kitchen, shrugging off their jackets to hang on the passing rack. Blake turns to Yang, brow cocked, amusement starting to tamper the blush hot in her cheeks and mouths, ‘ _salutations_ ’?

Yang groans in response, dropping the back of her head onto the cushions.

 

\--

 

She had been more invested in the movie than she realized.

So much so that, as the credits roll, Blake rocks forward with her hand gripping Yang’s knee, frown marring the entirety of her face, eyes squint. “That _can’t_ be the end.”

And Yang—who has seen the movie more times than she could count—pats the top of Blake’s hand to appear to have some modicum of sympathy. “It is, babe.”

Whipping her head to the side she rounds on Ruby, holding so tight to the pillow pressed into her chest her knuckles are glazed in white; the seams of the pillow aren’t faring well to the pressure.

“Ruby,” Blake says, too much emphasis behind the girl’s name, almost commanding. Silver is quick to find her, brimming with tears. Blake leans into her, takes her shoulders, nearly shakes her. “ _Please_. Tell me there’s a sequel.”

Shrugging, Ruby rubs at her nose with the back of her hand, chin to her chest. “I wish.”

Blake sputters, whipping back to face Yang. Her ears flatten, grasping her girlfriend’s arm with purpose. “How are you okay with that ending?”

Yang rolls her eyes, but pats Blake’s cheek good-naturedly, taking care to trace her thumb along the cut of her jaw as she returns her hand to her lap. “ _Skewed by Lakes and Seas_ is hardly Oscar worthy. Besides,” she drains the remainder of her beer in one swig. “We watch this movie at least once every two months.”

“ _Still_ —”

A yawn nearly cracks Yang’s jaw as she stretches back against the couch, arms taut as she reaches behind Blake to pull her closer by the shoulder, dropping a kiss to her temple; Blake’s eyes must be burning the skin on Yang’s midriff, now exposed by the crop of her sweatshirt riding up. Her fingers itch to reach out, trace the hard lines that disappear into the waistband of her joggers, dip beneath, find the ways in which Yang squirms, the way her breath could catch on the syllable of Blake’s name, the way her muscles would clench as Blake takes her against her hand—

The movie is the furthest thing from her mind, and even as Yang peers down at her and follows the hard line of her stare Blake isn’t much deterred.

Her mouth watering, however.

May be an overkill.

And the way Yang flicks her wrist, flexing without necessity to check the time on her watch—she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Okay,” she drops her hand to the arm of the couch, giving Blake’s shoulder one last squeeze before pushing herself to her feet, gathering the collection of empty bottles from the coffee table in the crook of her elbow. “It’s almost two in the morning. I’m beat.”

Ruby pats the back of Yang’s thigh as she scoots past the rest of them on the couch, pushing to her feet much the same to stride over to the TV stand. “Penny and I are going to play a few rounds of _Grimm Fate_ before heading to bed.”

Penny rubs her hands together, a smile crooked on her face as she accepts the controller Ruby hands her. “This time, I will be the one kicking _your_ butt.”

Ruby plops down next to her tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek. “Dare to dream, Polendina.”

As the theme music trickles from the speakers, Blake takes it as queue to follow Yang into the kitchen, reaching into her purse for her phone. Yang washes her hands and turns back to face her, drying off with a dishrag.

Blake’s mouth slants with a frown, brows drawn together. “Uber fares are ridiculous, right now.”

There’s silence that follows where it shouldn’t be, heavy in gesture and words lost to somewhere far off, somewhere intangible. Yang’s hand glides against the counter and she taps a finger against Blake’s wrist, moving to curl it over her pinky as her chest expands, shakes with an exhale.

And it comes as easy as a river flows, the charming way it cascades down cliffsides and pools inside itself, steadfast in certainty. “Stay with me tonight.”

Blake draws herself to lilac as if careful spring flowers do reach for the sun. The sincerity that lies there is waiting, wanting, wishing—it’s offered for Blake to take for careful hands, weave between her fingers like satin.

And really, the answer sits clear on her tongue before she stops herself, the nature of it so fluid that it’s as though Yang’s asked hundreds of times before, as though her response had always been the same.

“Okay.”

The footfalls echo in the hall that Yang leads her through by the hand, passing the open door of Ruby’s room—lined with posters and art and bathed in red from a lava lamp—and the restroom the sisters share, Yang’s shampoo on the hanging rack below the showerhead, Ruby’s toothbrush still out on the counter—

A hand presses to the door and Blake snaps back to herself, gripping Yang’s palm to get her attention.

“Wait,” Blake starts, eyes falling to the floor as Yang looks back her, her nervousness creeping in the blush that blooms against her throat, her chest. “Um. I don’t have any pajamas.”

Yang blinks as though the thought had never crossed her mind. “Oh. Well,” she drops Blake’s hand and tucks her own over the bow-taut curl of her neck. “You could always wear something of mine.”

It hadn’t occurred to Blake that there could be a moment when reality found her and settled in her chest like blooming petals—the notion that Yang was hers, and she was Yang’s, despite the connection they had already made long ago, and the recent definition. Wearing the clothes of another had never been something she broached in past relationships—not even with Adam, regardless of the number of times he had asked and the anger that gripped his shoulders when she declined. It shouldn’t feel as large as it does, but the notion of sharing something that Yang has touched, her and her only, was enough to set her skin on fire.

The pause is long enough for Yang to flick her eyes all around the hall making sure they don’t fall too long against Blake in one sitting. “I mean, they might be a bit big on you—Ruby might have an extra set you could borrow. Or—or I could try and find something that’d be more comfortable—”

It hits Blake that, despite the confidence that Yang breeds like second nature, she was still very much a woman who was falling in love.

“Whatever you have is fine,” Blake trembles through the words, reaching back out to take Yang’s hand, sliding their fingers together as though they had never been apart. “I like my pajamas baggy, anyhow.”

Yang breathes, nodding her head. “Okay,” she reassures herself, and then again, a bit more quietly. “Okay.”

Her hand settles against the door and it’s silent as it swings open, Blake waiting for the credits to roll.

The light flicks against heightened gray walls and, desperately, Blake wants to wander, wants to take in everything Yang brought with her from where she once called home to where she lays her head at night, the matted frames of cityscapes Blake’s never seen before. The clutter of knick-knacks on every open surface—the desk, the side table, the dresser. Succulents, a weathered, red model truck, newer movie tickets tacked to poster board and taped to the walls near posters, as though a part of her still remains in her youth, pressing everything like flowers for bookmarks.

There’s a lesser part of her that lifts her nose at the RedBull cans littered not even inside the trashcan by Yang’s desk, but.

Whatever gets the job done, she supposes.

Without forethought she reaches for a compass nestled against a snow globe, a few nicks and dents and scratches along the brass, a crack jagged over the glass. Her thumb presses against the chipped edge, a fleck of glass caught on her skin. “How long have you had this?” She asks, setting it back down.

Yang tilts her head, flicks her eyes up to find where Blake is headed. A quirk of her mouth still betrays her in the dark. “A while,” she goes back to her rummaging. “My dad gave it to me when I was little. Sometimes, when work piles up and everything gets to be too much, I,” she wiggles her nose, dampening an itch. “I think about running away and taking it with me if I get lost.” She pulls out a lump of clothes and pushes the drawer closed with her hip. “I should have done it the first time.”

Whiplash follows. “The _first_ time?”

But Yang only grins, handing Blake an outfit from the pile draped over her arm. “A conversation for another day.”

She takes what’s handed to her and before she can make to move for herself, Yang gestures with a dip of her head as she steps towards the door. “I’m going to go change in the bathroom and brush my teeth. I have extra stuff you can use in my medicine cabinet above the sink. You can, um.” She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes forcing themselves shut. “You can change in here, and. Uh. Just knock on the bathroom door and we can switch out.”

Blake pats the pajamas in her grip. “Sounds good.”

Nodding, Yang slips out of the room, leaving the door open just enough for a sliver of the hall lights to creep into the room, brighter than the lights dimmed overhead.

Blake starts with her hair. She runs her hands though her hair to shake her nerves, strides over to Yang’s bed to set her clothes down in order to get undressed. Her blouse comes undone without much effort, shrugging it from her shoulders to fall to the floor. Her pants follow suit, which. Were still somewhat loose from where Yang’s hands had dared to pull her apart.

She strips down to her underwear, reaches behind her back to the clasp of her bra and pauses for a moment, the thought of her bare breasts against Yang, against her clothes—

Blake tugs the shirt over her head before she can think herself into a stupor, red blooming over every inch of her skin.

The sleep shorts come mid-thigh for her, loose where she is slim, meant for someone of Yang’s build and stature. Wrapping her arms over her chest, Blake feels warm wherever cotton touches, wherever Yang has fit into these clothes before.

The pipes rattle overhead as Yang turns on the sink faucet and the noise is enough to drag Blake back into herself, her feet carrying her back out of the room and down the hall. Her knuckles wrap against the door and Yang opens it not even a beat later, face still blushed from being scrubbed clean, toothbrush hanging from her mouth.

And she smiles. Blake smiles back, taking the spare toothbrush held out to her.

Everything next happens in one sudden sweep, a motion that has her hovering: Yang bumps their hips as they share the mirror, as if they’ve done it hundreds of times over; Blake cleans her face and Yang passes her a washcloth without looking, their timing one in the same; they pad down the hall together, hand in hand like it’s been a lifetime since they’ve touched; Yang pulls back the covers for them both, settling against the pillows as Blake takes her time, plans her choices, where she chose to rest.

It comes to her as if it were a thought she’s had more than once before to find her place where Yang could reach, could hold Blake to her chest, against her soul and have their bodies speak for themselves: _I’m yours and you’re mine—maybe it was always meant to be this way_. She holds out her hand and Yang takes it, though not without a silly quirk of her mouth, allowing Blake to pull them to the mattress, under the sheets softer than silken robes, softer than the palm that curls against her own. Yang rests on her elbow and Blake comes closer, falls into the embrace of Yang’s arm loose over her hips—the escape she knew Blake would never ask for, would never question.

Blake rests her hand on Yang’s chest, fingers on her collar, and feels her heart beat.

And beat.

And beat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full disclosure i don't celebrate chinese new year and i really tried my best to do as much research on everything as i could and if i did anything wrong at all or if there's something that i should change because it's not quite right, please!!! pleasepleaseplease tell me i'd really appreciate it i just don't want to say the wrong thing but i want to bring forward the fact that blake/yang are woc
> 
> chapter title is from “first day of my life” by bright eyes :^)))))) !
> 
> yes this fic is rated m ! i know what i did! what im doing! just trust me!
> 
> if you havent yet !!!! i need everyone to go and check out this [lovely piece of art](https://neurolingual.tumblr.com/post/184975911164/i-need-everyone-to-see-the-absolutely-lovely-and) that [evast](https://evast.tumblr.com) made for this fic and i just want everyone to know . i cried . for a whole week and im not kidding


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